She  flushed  under  his  close  scrutiny 


THREADS 


BY 
FRANK  STAYTON 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


"OLD  ENGLAND" 


OLD  England  's  just  an  island,  if  geography  is  truthful, 
But  she  isn't  very  sociable,  nor  affable,  nor  youthful; 
And  though  you  're  sometimes  furious,  and  often  disapproving, 
There  is  something  in  old  England  that  you  simply  can't  help 
loving ! 

The  men  who  made  her  what  she  is  were  doubtless  human  too; 
They  laughed  and  quarrelled,  fought  and  groused,  as  you  and 

others  do; 

But  when  the  foe  was  at  the  gate  they  promptly  would  prepare 
To  meet  that  foe — and  die  perhaps — as  many  do  "out  there"! 

They  thought  "the  Staff  was  rotten,"  and  they  hated  red-tape 

rules ; 

They  wondered  if  the  Home  Front  was  made  up  of  utter  fools; 
They  grumbled  at  the  rations,  and  they  slanged  the  Government. 
But  they  held  their  line  of  trenches  till  their  arrows  all  were 

spent; 

They  braved  the  dangers  of  the  deep  in  ships  of  tiny  size; 
They  hung  aloft  in  howling  gales,   and  fought  their  enemies; 
They  played  the  game  as  sailors  did,  and  as  they  do  to-day, 
Though  they  did  n't  have  much  fun  and  had  extremely  little 
pay. 

The  men  who  made  old  England  hadn't  time  to  talk  a  lot; 
They  gave  themselves,  took  on  the  job,   and  little  thanks  they 

got; 

Later  their  sons,  renouncing  sport,  would  step  into  their  shoes; 
For  when  you  serve  old  England  you  must  never  pick  and 

choose ! 

Through  centuries  and  centuries,  firm-planted  at  the  helm, 

A  silent  grim  minority  talk  could  not  overwhelm 

Has  steered  the  ship  of  England  through  the  breakers  and  the 

shoals 
While  politicians  cackled  and  the  public  played  at  bowls.  .  .  . 


2138246 


THREADS 


CHAPTER  I 

The  Patriots   Give  me  a  trusty  sword,  and  bid  me  fight! 

|         [Crowd  applauds. 
The  Grouser:  Give  me  a  fountain-pen,  and  leave  to  write  1 

[Crowd  groans. 

The  Profiteer  (.his  finger  to  his  nose) :    Here  is  my  chance  to  bleed 
my  country  white!  [Crowd  chuckles. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  2,  Scene  I. 

i 

A  MAN  was  seated  in  the  corner  of  a  third-class 
smoking  compartment  of  the  London  Express  on 
a  morning  in  the  early  summer  of  1917,  gazing 
through  the  grimy  windows  and  occasionally 
catching  his  breath  as  though  he  were  interested 
in  the  novelty  of  the  scene;  though,  to  the 
experienced  traveler,  novelty  was  lacking.  The 
engine  of  the  London  and  South-Western  Rail- 
way, with  its  customary  craze  for  economy  in  coal, 
labored  heavily  up  a  moderate  gradient. 

The  orderly  appearance  of  the  fields,  the  well- 
groomed  gardens  and  hedges,  the  red  roofs  and 
the  trim  stations,  unnoticed  by  the  newspaper- 
reading  majority,  appeared  to  strike  the  man  in 
the  corner  with  surprise.  He  lowered  the  win- 
dow and,  removing  his  hat,  allowed  the  soft 

3 


4  THREADS 

summer  wind  to  play  around  his  closely  cropped 
iron-gray  hair.  He  turned  his  head  to  observe 
his  fellow-travelers :  they  were  engrossed  by  their 
favorite  organs  of  public  opinion.  The  sight  of 
some  feminine  farm-workers  moving  milk-cans  on 
a  country  station  astonished  him;  but  his  surprise 
did  not  appear  to  be  infectious.  He  turned  back 
to  the  panorama  of  fields  and  woods  and  villages, 
fascinated  by  the  sleepy  prettiness  of  the  scene. 

By  the  summer  of  1917  England  had  accepted 
the  war  as  a  habit.  Khaki  was  everywhere.  In 
this  particular  train  on  a  Saturday  morning  there 
was  quite  an  appreciable  amount  of  khaki  on 
week-end  leave,  together  with  a  picturesque 
sprinkling  of  blue  from  Weymouth.  Though 
traveling  was  being  discouraged  by  the  powers 
that  be,  the  train  was  full.  The  first-class 
coaches  contained  a  sprinkling  of  naval  and  mili- 
tary officers,  but  were  chiefly  filled  by  a  loud- 
voiced,  expensively  dressed,  self-satisfied  type 
with  money  to  burn — men  who  were  doing  well 
out  of  the  war,  who  would  be  sorry  when  the  war 
was  over,  who  had  risen  from  obscurity  to  com- 
mercial prosperity,  and,  having  achieved  great- 
ness,— the  kind  of  greatness  that  makes  first-class 
traveling  and  expensive  hotels  and  restaurants  a 
habit, — intended  to  hold  to  what  they  had  se- 
cured. The  war  that  had  brought  death  and 
mutilation,  poverty  and  sickness  to  the  men  in 


THREADS  5 

the  trenches  had  produced  undreamed-of  pros- 
perity among  those  who  had  stayed  at  home. 

But  the  man  in  the  corner  was  as  yet  ignorant 
of  the  miracle  that  had  occurred  in  the  lives  of 
so  many  of  his  fellow-countrymen.  He  merely 
gazed  at  these  curious  creatures,  amazed  at  their 
manners  and  customs  and  their  shrieking  pros- 
perity. Some  of  them  picked  their  teeth  and  made 
strange  sucking  noises  with  their  mouths;  they 
smoked  huge  cigars  from  which  they  neglected  to 
remove  the  labels.  In  the  luncheon-car  they  drank 
champagne.  In  a  word,  they  swanked. 

Some  of  the  officers — especially  the  worried- 
looking  elderly  second  lieutenants — contented 
themselves  with  a  sandwich :  money  was  evidently 
scarce.  Only  those  on  consolidated  pay,  or  the 
young  and  unmarried,  could  afford  to  lunch  in  the 
restaurant-car.  The  man  in  the  corner  listened 
eagerly  to  the  scraps  of  talk  that  fell  from  the 
lips  of  his  companions  as,  their  newspapers  di- 
gested and  allowed  to  fall  on  the  floor,  they 
lighted  pipes  or  cigarettes  and  glanced  suspiciously 
at  each  other  in  the  approved  British  fashion.  A 
commercial  traveler,  with  great  frankness  and  an 
apparent  love  of  hearing  his  own  voice,  started 
the  ball  rolling  by  an  account  of  his  successes  in 
towns  like  WeymoutK  and  Plymouth.  "But  give 
me  the  North !"  he  exclaimed,  picking  his  teeth 
with  a  match.  "They  '11  buy  whatever  you  offer — 


6  THREADS 

provided  it 's  expensive.  They  're  eating  money 
up  there.  Gramophones,  grand  pianos,  silk  hand- 
kerchiefs, sports-coats,  furs,  jewelry — anything 
that  costs  money  and  looks  as  though  it  did !" 

"Why  don't  they  put  it  into  the  War  Loan?" 
asked  a  little  man  with  his  back  to  the  engine. 

"War  Loan  my  eye!"  The  commercial  trav- 
eler frothed  with  contempt.  "They  can't  wear 
War  Loan;  they  can't  exhibit  it  on  the  parlor 
table,  or  furnish  the  drawing-room  with  it !  Why 
do  you  suppose  they  want  all  these  things?  To 
use  ?  Huh !  They  would  n't  use  'em  all  in 
twenty  years.  No !  They  want  'em  to  show  their 
neighbors  how  rich  they  are.  It 's  swank — that 's 
all !  Do  you  suppose  a  munition  worker  wants 
two  pianos  so  's  he  can  play  one  with  each  hand? 
Not  much  I  He  wants  two  because  the  man  across 
the  street  only  has  one.  I  tell  you,  the  war's  good 
for  trade.  /  'm  not  grumbling." 

A  soldier  with  a  gold  stripe  on  his  arm  turned 
quickly  from  his  grim  contemplation  of  the  cor- 
ridor. "You  ought  to  see  some  o'  the  villages 
on  the  Somme — and  round  Wipers.  .  .  .  And 
then  to  look  at  that !"  He  indicated  the  peaceful- 
looking  red  roofs  of  Basingstoke.  "My  Gawd! 
And  you  talk  of  war  bein'  good  for  trade !"  He 
turned  away  with  a  snort  and  lighted  a  cheap 
cigarette.  There  was  silence  in  the  compartment 
for  a  moment. 


THREADS  7 

The  soldier  with  the  gold  stripe  was  returning 
to  France  by  the  afternoon  leave  train.  The  fore- 
going remark  was  his  only  contribution  to  the 
general  conversation. 

The  commercial  traveler  continued  his  account 
of  the  prosperity  of  the  country,  but  in  a  slightly 
lowered  voice.  A  young  and  healthy  exempted 
indispensable  reading  the  Daily  News  whistled 
self-consciously.  The  man  in  the  corner  looked 
puzzled  as  his  eyes  drank  in  the  beauty  of  the 
Elvetham  woods. 

He  wanted  to  ask  questions,  but  somehow  his 
lips  refused  to  put  his  thoughts  into  words.  He 
felt  a  curious  shyness  of  his  fellow-men.  He 
wanted  to  get  into  conversation  with  the  soldier 
wearing  the  gold  stripe;  he  had  a  strong  desire 
to  shake  him  by  the  hand,  and  to  thank  him  for 
{helping  to  make  the  present  position  possible. 
What  would  England  be  if  it  were  n't  for  the  men 
in  the  trenches?  A  shambles,  a  ruin,  a  memory. 
Would  the  munition  workers  be  able  to  buy 
gramophones,  the  commercial  traveler  be  selling 
sports-coats?  He  laughed  grimly  to  himself.  It 
was  England  all  over — a  nation  of  individualists, 
each  wrapped  up  in  his  own  affairs.  It  always 
had  been,  it  always  should  be. 

The  train  was  approaching  the  outer  suburbs. 
How  would  London  strike  a  stranger?  A 
stranger.  Yes,  indeed,  he  was  a  stranger!  After 


8  THREADS 

fifteen  years.  Fifteen  years — an  eternity.  He 
felt  like  a  man  in  a  dream  who  almost  dreaded  the 
awakening.  He  rose  and  made  his  way  along 
the  corridor  to  the  lavatory  to  wash  his  hands. 
He  looked  at  himself  in  the  mirror. 

He  saw  a  young  man's  face  grown  old,  with 
lines  under  the  eyes,  on  the  forehead,  between 
the  eyebrows;  an  expression  saved  from  bitter- 
ness by  the  blessed  twinkle  of  .humor  that  fifteen 
years  had  failed  to  kill. 

With  its  customary  absent-mindedness,  the 
London  and  South-Western  Railway  had  forgot- 
ten the  necessity  for  a  towel,  so  he  was  obliged 
to  dry  his  hands  on  a  handkerchief.  It  was  a 
new  one,  obviously  purchased  in  a  hurry.  He  re- 
turned to  his  compartment.  The  soldier  with  the 
gold  stripe  had  risen  from  his  seat  and  was  stand- 
ing in  the  corridor  with  his  arms  on  the  guiding- 
rail.  His  face  was  almost  expressionless. 

The  withdrawal  of  the  soldier  with  the  gold 
stripe  had  loosened  the  tongue  of  the  commercial 
traveler.  He  was  swanking  more  than  ever. 
"They  can't  touch  us,"  he  was  saying.  "They 
know  they  must  n't  interfere  with  trade  or  they  '11 
be  in  the  cart  financially." 

"They  try-bunals  can  be  worked,"  said  a 
farmer.  "I  'm  on  a  try-bunal  myself.  I  says  to 
the  other  farmers :  'You  exempt  my  men  and  I  '11 
exempt  yours!'  Give  and  take !  That 's  our 


THREADS  9 

policy.  I  got  all  my  sons  exempted."  He 
chuckled.  It  was  a  score  to  him  in  the  great  game, 
the  score  of  the  individualist  against  that  queer 
abstraction  called  the  government — otherwise 
"they." 

The  train  ran  into  Vauxhall,  and  the  man  in 
the  corner  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  His  first 
impression  of  England  in  the  third  year  of  war 
was  beginning  to  irritate  him.  He  would  be  glad 
to  get  away  from  these  amazingly  self-satisfied 
egotists. 

The  train  moved  on,  halted,  moved  on  a  few 
yards,  and  finally  worried  its  way  into  the  station. 
The  man  in  the  corner  gasped.  Could  this  amaz- 
ingly spacious  erection  be  Waterloo  Station? 
Had  there  been  an  earthquake?  What  had  hap- 
pened to  the  London  and  South-Western  Rail- 
way? Fifteen  years  before  Waterloo  Station  had 
been  a  time-honored  joke.  A  comedian  had  only 
to  mention  Waterloo  Station — as,  later  on,  he 
had  only  to  mention  the  Daily  Mail — to  be  re- 
warded by  a  huge  laugh  and  possibly  a  round  of 
applause.  Waterloo  Station  had  been  a  ram- 
shackle, tumble-down,  depressing  wilderness  of 
illusive  platforms  and  dazed  officials.  You 
arrived  there  with  five  minutes  to  catch  your  train, 
and  it  took  you  half  an  hour  to  discover  which 
platform  it  departed  from. 


io  THREADS 

He  asked  a  porter  what  was  the  reason  for  the 
holes  in  the  glass  roof.  "Shrapnel,"  replied  the 
porter  surlily.  "By  'r  leave,  please,"  and  he 
moved  on  with  his  barrow,  avoiding  the  legs  of 
passengers  by  a  miracle  of  dexterity. 

His  interrogator  moved  slowly  along  the 
thronged  platform,  with  eyes  searching  the  crowd 
for  a  familiar  face,  finally  accosting  an  exquisitely 
groomed  young  man  who  was  standing  near  the 
exit,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  dabbing  his  fore- 
head with  a  spotless  handkerchief. 

"I  think  you  must  be  my  son!"  he  said. 
"You  're  so  absurdly  like  your  mother." 


CHAPTER  II 

Messenger:  A  stranger's  here  to  learn  our  point  of  view. 
Britannicus :  Let  him  come  in!  ...  But  wake  me  not  again! 

Tell  him  our  secrets,  show  him  ev'rything.  .  .  . 

Make  him  an  Englishman!  .  .  .  But  let  me  sleep! 

Pro  P atria,  Act  i. 

ON  the  same  afternoon  a  girl  was  lounging  on 
the  window-seat  of  the  living-room  of  a  roomy 
modern  house  of  the  Voysey  type  that  stood  on 
the  high  ground  near  the  Chalfonts.  The  room, 
containing  most  of  the  features  usually  photo- 
graphed for  Country  Life  ("Lesser  Country 
Houses  of  England"),  had  casement  windows 
overlooking  a  stretch  of  lawn  and  a  rose  garden 
which  was  reaching  a  kind  of  modified  maturity. 
The  general  atmosphere  suggested  comfort,  a 
staff  of  expensive,  well-trained  servants,  and  a 
comfortable  balance  in  the  bank;  and  the  girl 
who  was  lounging  on  the  window-seat,  making 
an  extremely  attractive  picture  as  she  dipped  into 
a  novel  which  bored  her  and  a  box  of  chocolates 
which  did  n't,  suited  the  atmosphere.  Her  pretty 
summer  frock  had  been  made  by  an  artist,  and 
she  wore  it  with  genius.  Though  not  yet  twenty, 
her  manner  was  assured  without  being  aggressive ; 

ii 


12  THREADS 

and  she  pronounced  her  vowels  as  they  were 
meant  to  be  pronounced — which  rendered  her 
eminently  desirable  at  a  time  when  thousand- 
guinea  automobiles  were  almost  entirely  sur- 
rounded by  cockney  accents. 

She  looked  up  as  the  musical  note  of  a  seventy- 
horsepower  car  announced  its  coming;  and,  being 
a  girl,  allowed  her  book  to  slide  on  to  the  floor 
unheeded  as  her  hand  went  instinctively  to  her 
hair.  After  a  moment  or  two  an  ornamental 
parlor-maid  announced  "Mr.  Jordan,  Miss!"  and 
stood  aside  to  allow  the  visitor  to  enter;  then 
retired  to  strong  tea  and  Mr.  Charles  Garvice 
in  the  servants'  hall. 

Jefferson  Jordan  was  immaculately  dressed  for 
a  call  in  the  West  End  of  London ;  that,  and  the 
fact  that  he  was  not  more  than  thirty-five,  be- 
trayed his  nationality.  He  was  of  the  type  that, 
had  he  been  English,  could  not  have  remained  out 
of  khaki.  Tall,  rather  lanky,  with  a  prominent 
chin,  restless  hands,  keen  gray  eyes  full  of  energy, 
easily  elated,  still  more  easily  depressed,  doggedly 
determined,  anxious  to  hear  all  points  of  view, 
a  trifle  awed  by  Olive's  assured  manner  and 
opinions,  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  he 
first  saw  the  light  from  the  interior  of  a  farm- 
house in  the  State  of  Michigan,  U.S.A.  For 
he  had  too  much  enthusiasm,  he  was  too  polite, 
too  eager  to  listen  to  other  people's  views,  and 


THREADS  13 

was  too  obviously  in  awe  of  the  eternal  feminine 
ever  to  be  mistaken  for  an  Englishman.  An 
Englishman  is  never  in  awe  of  a  woman;  he  may 
hate  her,  fear  her,  despise  her,  adore  her,  desire 
her,  detest  her;  but  even  when  hating  her,  fearing 
her,  despising  her,  adoring  her,  desiring  her,  or 
detesting  her,  he  invariably  insists  that  his  is 
the  superior  sex.  American  men  know  it,  but 
are  chivalrous  enough  to  conceal  the  fact.  Hence 
the  powers  of  fascination  an  Englishman  pos- 
sesses for  the  women  of  all  nations,  and  the 
tragedy  of  the  American  husband  working  with- 
out a  vacation  to  provide  his  wife  and  daughters 
with  trips  to  Europe  and  an  introduction  to 
Madame  Paquin. 

Five  years'  residence  in  London  had  taught 
Jordan  to  doubt  some  of  his  own  theories  and 
to  be  prepared  for  the  cold  douche  of  English 
prejudice  and  convention.  An  American  man 
who  can  survive  five  years'  residence  in  London 
usually  becomes  more  English  than  the  English, 
except  for  the  fact  that  occasionally  his  native 
humor  slips  its  leash  and,  like  a  dog  without  its 
collar,  has  a  good  time  while  it  can. 

Take  the  British  national  type  of  humor — the 
comedian  with  the  red  nose.  An  Englishman 
laughs  at  the  red  nose;  an  American  laughs  at 
the  comedian. 

Jordan  removed  his  right-hand  glove  before 


i4  THREADS 

shaking  hands  with  Olive.  His  nails  were  ex- 
quisitely manicured,  and  his  hands  long  and  sen- 
sitive. "It 's  bully  to  see  you  out  of  uniform," 
he  said. 

Olive  was  a  V.A.D.  A  pretty  V.A.D.,  pro- 
vided her  hair  is  not  the  wrong  shade  of  auburn, 
had  no  objection  to  the  indoor  uniform;  but  there 
were  limits  even  to  a  V.A.D. 's  sense  of  patriotism, 
and  the  regulation  hat  and  coat  was  rarely 
popular. 

"I  left  the  office  early,  'phoned  for  my  auto, 
and  flagellated  the  speed  limit  to  a.  perfectly 
criminal  extent,"  continued  Jordan,  seating  him- 
self on  the  window-seat  with  a  sigh  of  relaxation. 
"But  I  'm  here  and  you  're  here,  so  everything 
in  the  garden  's  lovely — including  that  bully  frock 
you  're  wearing!" 

"Yes,  it  is  rather  ducky,"  replied  Olive,  glanc- 
ing at  the  arrangement  of  her  skirt.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  slight  frown.  "But  will 
you  be  offended  if  I  say  something?" 

"I  'm  crazy  to  hear  you  say  anything,"  said 
Jordan. 

Olive  hesitated.  "People  don't  wear  tophats 
and  frock-coats  for  week-ends  in  the  country," 
she  asserted. 

Jordan  sighed.  "It  isn't  done?"  he  queried. 
Olive  shook  her  head  determinedly.  "Another 
one  on  me/'  he  murmured.  "Such  a  lot  of  things 


THREADS  15 

are  n't  done — over  on  this  side.  It  would  take  a 
pretty  bright  man  most  of  the  day  and  half  the 
night  to  get  acquainted  with  all  the  things  that 
can't  be  done — in  England." 

"There  's  nothing  positive  in  our  code,"  said 
Olive;  "but  there  are  quite  two  million  negatives." 

"I  guess  I  'm  still  in  the  third  standard,"  sighed 
Jordan.  "Oh,  hell!"  He  apologized  humbly  for 
the  exclamation. 

"Please  don't  apologize,"  said  Olive,  smiling. 
"I  'm  what  you  might  call  a  whole-hogger  in 
swears.  I  don't  like  polite  substitutes.  If  a  man 
says  hell,  he  probably  means  hell." 

Jordan  looked  pensive.  "I  wonder  will  I  ever 
learn  the  two  million  forms  of  etiquette  a  man 
has  to  acquire  before  he  can  get  elected  to  the 
kind  of  club  that 's  as  good  as  a  pass-in  check  to 
Buckingham  Palace?" 

"If  a  man  is  n't  born  to  it  he  rarely  achieves  it," 
said  Olive. 

"You're  not  too  optimistic,  are  you?"  replied 
Jordan.  "I  don't  blame  you,"  he  added  quickly. 
"It 's  all  a  question  of  viewpoint.  I  had  my 
business  training  in  Noo  York;  and  a  man  that 
banks  on  delivering  the  goods  in  Noo  York  has 
to  get  in  ahead  of  the  rest  with  noo  schemes 
for  catching  the  public  eye  and  the  public  ear. 
But  over  here,  if  a  man  gets  hold  of  a  cute  little 
dodge  for  advertising  a  business,  you  conservative 


i6  THREADS 

British  accuse  him  of  not  being  'good  form' ;  and 
it 's  just  a  little  discouraging,"  he  concluded,  rub- 
bing his  chin  meditatively. 

Olive  looked  at  him  reproachfully.  "It  is  a 
trifle  upsetting  to  be  faced  in  the  tube  with  a 
long  poster  that  says :  'Where  does  your  best  boy 
buy  his  pants?'  ' 

"But  the  cinch  is  in  the  answer:  'Why,  at 
Rattigan's,  of  course !  ,  Where  else  could  he  buy 
them?'  "  replied  Jordan  triumphantly. 

"It  might  be  taken  in  two  ways,"  murmured 
Olive  demurely. 

Jordan  became  a  little  aggressive.  "What  do 
you  object  to  in  that  advertisement?"  he  inquired 
sharply. 

"Only  to  the  tone  of  it,"  she  replied  in  her  most 
insular  manner — a  manner  that  has  been  respon- 
sible on  more  than  one  occasion  for  loosening  the 
grasp  of  "hands  across  the  sea." 

"Doesn't  it  get  there?"  said  Jordan  eagerly 
and  with  enthusiasm  .  "Is  n't  it  crystallized  into 
a  few  words?  Would  Rattigan  pay  me  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars  a  year  to  be  his  advertising  manager 
because  I  was  his  old  college  chum?  No,  sir-eel 
He  pays  me  because  it  pays  him  to  pay  me.  My 
ideas  are  worth  big  money  to  him — though  they 
are  bad  form,  and  bourgeois,  and  everything  that 
the  British  appear  to  dislike,"  he  concluded  with 
some  heat. 


THREADS  17 

Olive  glanced  at  him  with  an  annihilating  smile. 
"Don't  get  ratty!"  she  said.  "Have  a  candy?" 

She  offered  the  box.  They  were  too  tempting 
to  be  resisted — especially  by  a  man  who  had  con- 
scientious objections  to  smoking  when  ladies  were 
present.  He  was  so  chivalrous  in  his  dealings 
with  women  that  he  was  in  serious  danger  of  be- 
coming what  the  middle  classes  call  a  "perfect 
gentleman."  But  Olive  had  few  prejudices  where 
men  were  concerned;  there  were  only  two  types 
she  cordially  detested — the  man  who  calls  his  wife 
"Little  Woman"  and  the  man  who  calls  her 
"Mother." 

Jordan  took  a  candy.  He  tasted  it,  and  his 
eyes  brightened.  "That 's  one  of  Rattigan's 
'First  and  Last,'  "  he  asserted. 

"Rather!"  replied  Olive;  "as  ycu  would  say, 
they  lick  creation!" 

"I  boomed  them,"  said  Jordan  with  pardon- 
able pride;  "and  now  they're  one  of  Rattigan's 
chief  lines." 

"I  'm  glad  you  came  to-day,"  remarked  Olive; 
"we  're  all  a  bit  nervy  and  on  edge." 

"What 's  the  trouble  ?"  Jordan  inquired.  "Been 
exceeding  the  ration?" 

"Oh,    no!"    replied    Olive;    "it's    something 


serious." 


This  was  in  the  days  when  a  polite  government 
was  afraid  to  impose  economy  in  food  consump- 


1 8  THREADS 

tion  on  its  voters,  so  spent  a  great  deal  of  money 
and  wasted  a  lot  of  time  in  begging  the  public 
to  be  good.  Naturally,  the  public  failed  to  take 
it  seriously.  Politicians  in  Rolls-Royce  cars 
preaching  economy  in  petrol,  Cabinet  Ministers 
with  five  thousand  a  year  urging  farm-laborers 
and  small  clerks  with  huge  families  to  eat  less 
bread,  may  not  have  been  an  impressive  spectacle, 
but  they  afforded  the  necessary  comic  relief. 

"Have  another  candy,"  said  Olive.  Jordan 
helped  himself.  There  was  evidently  no  shortage 
in  sugar  for  making  sweets,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  the  wealthy  classes  were  quietly  and  unob- 
trusively collecting  as  much  as  they  could  lay  their 
hands  on.  John  Osborne  Wynn  afterward  re- 
ferred to  it  as  "taking  thought  to  add  a  cubic  to 
their  stature" ;  but  his  family  failed  to  follow  the 
analogy. 

"I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter,"  continued 
Olive.  "I  Ve  been  trying  to  guess.  But  I  Ve 
given  it  up  as  a  bad  job." 

"Given  up  what?"  asked  Jordan,  hesitating 
between  a  tnarron  glace  and  an  almond  caramel. 

"Speculating,"  replied  Olive.  "Mother's 
hideously  nervy  and  inclined  to  hysteria.  Good- 
ness knows  what  has  upset  her.  You  have  n't 
been  quarreling  with  her,  have  you? — about  Seppy 
or  anything?"  she  added,  suddenly  looking  up  at 
him. 


THREADS  19 

When  you  are  in  love  with  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
it  is  a  little  embarrassing  to  be  suspected  of  being 
in  love  with  her  mother — more  especially  when 
your  innate  chivalry  forbids  your  denying  the  one 
or  asserting  the  other.  Olive  and  her  brothers 
were  so  accustomed  to  their  mother's  apparent 
powers  of  fascination  over  men  that  they  had 
accepted  the  fact  that  any  man  who  was  a  regular 
visitor  at  the  house  came  to  see  Amelia  and  not 
Olive.  It  was  not  that  Amelia  was  more  beau- 
tiful than  her  daughter,  but  she  had  more  of  that 
intangible  quality  known  to  patrons  of  the  drama 
as  sex-attraction. 

"Why,  no!"  replied  Jordan  hesitatingly. 
"Why  should  I  quarrel  with  your  mother  about 
Colonel  Packinder?" 

"I  don't  know,"  mused  Olive,  a  tiny  smile  play- 
ing about  her  lips.  "But  it 's  done,"  she  added 
mischievously.  "Seppy  's  always  more  or  less  in 
the  spotlight,  and  the  others  sometimes  get  an- 
noyed." 

Jordan  unconsciously  took  another  candy. 

Olive  continued:  "Well,  anyway,  this  morning, 
quite  early — just  as  Arthur  was  going  to  the 
station — she  called  him  into  her  room,  and  there 
they  remained  for  nearly  an  hour.  Arthur  came 
out  looking  very  frazzled,  and  I  asked  him  what 
was  up.  All  he  said  was :  'Mother  will  tell  you.' 
Men  are  so  hopeless  when  a  girl  wants  to  know 


20  THREADS 

a  thing  right  away.  He  disappeared  upstairs, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  he  went  off  to  the  station 
in  the  car.  He  has  n't  returned,  and  mother  has 
shut  herself  up  in  her  bedroom,  and  she  did  n't 
even  appear  at  lunch.  So  you  see  there  must  be 
something  up,  and  I  have  n't  an  idea  what  it  is." 

Jordan  pondered.  He  pondered,  in  the  first 
place,  because  he  was  terrified  at  butting  in,  and, 
in  the  second  place,  because  a  caramel  (one  of 
Rattigan's  "First  and  Last")  had  stuck  firmly  and 
securely  to  his  teeth,  and  the  problem  of  removing 
it  required  a  lot  of  solving.  Eventually  nature 
solved  it,  and  he  ventured  a  remark. 

"Your  mother  can't  be  in  financial  difficulties?" 
he  suggested. 

"Oh,  no!"  replied  Olive.  "The  uncle  who  left 
us  all  the  money  we  have  did  n't  give  her  the 
chance  to  speculate;  he  tied  it  all  up  in  gilt-edged 
securities.  Whatever  it  is,  it  is  n't  money" 

Jordan  thought  some  more.  "You  belong  to 
the  gentler  sex,"  he  remarked.  "What  would 
worry  you?" 

"I  might  worry  over  my  handicap  at  golf;  or 
if  my  dressmaker  went  bankrupt;  or  if  tight  skirts 
came  in  just  after  I  had  bought  my  summer 
frocks,"  replied  Olive  pensively;  "but  it's  noth- 
ing like  that  mother  's  worrying  about." 

Jordan  coughed  delicately.  "It — it  is  n't  a  sad 
anniversary — or  anything  like  that  ?  ¥dur  father, 


THREADS  21 

for  instance?    How  long  ago  is  it  since  he  died?" 

"About  fifteen  years,  I  think,"  said  Olive,  "I 
don't  quite  remember." 

"In  England?"  inquired  Jordan. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Olive. 

"Isn't  that  rather  curious?"  said  Jordan.  "I 
thought  English  people  were  far  more  particular 
about  who  they  were  than  about  what  they  were, 
and  that  fathers  were  more  important  than  chil- 
dren." 

"Mother  is  n't  very  communicative,"  answered 
Olive.  "Even  Arthur  did  n't  remember  him  very 
well;  but  Arthur  was  very  delicate  as  a  boy,  and 
I  believe  he  was  sent  to  an  aunt  in  Switzerland 
when  he  was  about  seven  and  did  n't  come  back 
until  he  was  over  ten." 

Olive  frowned.  Mysteries  were  distasteful 
enough  in  any  case;  but  mysteries  that  required 
explanations  to  outsiders  were  hateful.  She 
looked  out  of  the  window.  "Mother 's  in  the 
garden — with  Jimmy,"  she  observed.  "Perhaps 
she  's  going  to  face  the  inevitable  and  tell  us  all 
about  it." 

Jordan  took  up  his  gloves  and  prepared  to  de- 
part. "I  'm  going  to  visit  my  new  home,"  he 
remarked,  looking  at  his  watch  hurriedly.  "Your 
English  plumbers  would  drive  a  saint  to  blas- 
phemy. I  'm  going  to  have  a  heart-to-heart  talk 
with  the  foreman.  He  thinks  I  'm  crazy,  but  I 


22  THREADS 

know  he  is — and  I  'm  going  to  make  him  sus- 
pect." 

"You  can't  go  without  speaking  to  mother," 
said  Olive.  "Let 's  go  into  the  garden."  And 
Jordan,  carrying  his  hat  and  gloves,  followed  her. 

Where  an  Englishman  will  invariably  walk  a 
yard  or  two  ahead  of  a  woman,  an  American  will 
remain  a  couple  of  paces  in  the  rear.  An  English- 
man will  say  "Come  on !"  where  an  American  says 
"After  you!" 

It  is  these  little  distinctions  of  nationality  that 
help  to  make  life  interesting. 


CHAPTER  III 

Maid:  Madam,  your  husband  has  returned! 
Lesbia:  He  has  a  genius  for  anti-climax. 

Pro  P atria,  Act  i. 

AMELIA  was  the  kind  of  woman  who  attracted 
men  by  showing  them  her  helplessness  and  their 
strength;  an  irritating  woman,  but  lovable,  pretty 
enough  to  be  forgiven  her  little  tyrannies,  fem- 
inine in  the  Victorian  sense,  and  inclined  to 
sentimentality  and  tearfulness  in  order  to  gain 
a  point.  She  had  a  genuine  sense  of  the  duty  she 
owed  to  her  children,  but  was  too  fond  of  re- 
ferring to  the  fact.  She  occasionally  surprised 
her  children,  but  rarely  surprised  herself;  she 
realized  that  they  considered  her  high-strung  and 
nervous,  fond  of  admiration,  and  inclined  to  be 
a  martyr.  Few  children  know  their  parents  other 
than  superficially. 

It  never  occurred  to  them  that,  in  spite  of  her 
occasionally  exasperating  ways,  she  was  a  woman 
capable  of  love,  of  devotion,  of  loyalty,  and  of 
passion,  and  that  she  understood  them  as  they 
never  understood  her.  That  she  was  in  her  forty- 
fifth  year  few  people  would  believe.  Not  that 
age  is  any  criterion  in  this  highly  civilized  era. 

23 


24  THREADS 

No  woman  need  be  considered  middle-aged  until 
she  is  sixty;  few  women  are  worth  talking  <-o  be- 
fore they  are  thirty-five;  and  if  a  woman  knows 
what  colors  suit  her  she  can  remain  at  the  height 
of  her  attractiveness  for  an  indefinite  period. 
Amelia  looked  thirty,  and  had  no  ambition  to  be 
taken  for  twenty-two.  If  a  woman  with  a  grown- 
up family  can  look  thirty  in  real  life  and  not 
merely  in  the  illustrated  papers,  she  can  scarcely 
be  considered  a  negligible  quantity.  Moreover, 
she  knew  how  to  dress ;  she  never  made  the  fatal 
mistake  of  throwing  her  clothes  on  anyhow  in 
order  to  be  punctual  for  a  meal.  She  was  never 
punctual  for  anything.  She  never  took  less  than 
an  hour  to  dress.  She  never  hurried  for  a  train : 
if  she  missed  her  train,  there  were  others.  She 
had  an  instinct  for  a  background,  and  invariably 
acquired  the  one  most  suitable.  She  was  an  ex- 
cellent hostess,  neither  intrusive  nor  neglectful. 
She  was  an  even  more  satisfactory  guest;  that  is 
to  say,  she  never  glanced  at  the  prices  when  din- 
ing at  a  restaurant.  When  asked  what  she  would 
like,  she  replied  without  hesitation.  Once  she 
had  dined  or  lunched  with  a  man,  he  could  tell  to 
half  a  crown  what  the  privilege  of  entertaining 
her  would  cost  him.  If  she  was  beyond  his  means, 
he  sighed,  and  entertained  someone  less  expensive. 
She  herself  was  not  sufficiently  fond  of  being 
entertained  to  have  the  additional  bother  of  won- 


THREADS  25 

dering  whether  her  host  could  afford  such  extrava- 
gance. She  took  it  for  granted  that  he  could.  In 
fact,  she  took  most  things  for  granted — including 
Colonel  Septimus  Packinder. 

But  on  this  particular  afternoon  she  was  obvi- 
ously disturbed.  She  was  endeavoring  to  talk 
calmly  to  her  fifteen-year-old  son,  who  was  at 
Harrow.  James  was  a  nice  boy  who  had  acquired 
most  of  the  Harrow  traditions,  but  his  mother's 
uneasiness  was  causing  him  great  discomfort. 
Hang  it  all!  Suppose  she  gave  herself  away? 
What  was  a  fellow  to  do?  Suppose  she  started 
blubbering?  Various  excuses  for  a  sudden  ab- 
sence darted  through  his  brain. 

The  sight  of  his  sister  Olive  coming  along  the 
grassy  path,  followed  by  Jefferson  Jordan,  was 
more  than  a  relief;  it  was  like  an  answer  to  a 
prayer. 

Amelia  also  welcomed  the  interruption.  It  is 
a  very  curious  thing  that,  when  you  have  a  con- 
fession to  make,  you  realize  that  every  postpone- 
ment adds  to  the  difficulties  of  your  task,  but  that 
any  kind  of  an  interruption  is  welcome.  The  per- 
son who  complains  of  lack  of  humor  in  fiction  or 
drama  should  study  life  and  people.  The  more 
you  study  the  world  the  more  ready  you  are  to 
believe  that  it  was  conceived  in  a  spirit  of  comic 
irony. 


26  THREADS 

"I  did  n't  know  you  were  here,  Mr.  Jordan," 
said  Amelia  as  she  shook  hands. 

There  was  a  slightly  embarrassing  pause,  which 
Jordan  bridged.  "Hallo,  Jimmy!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Hallo !"  replied  Jimmy.  "I  say,  I  nearly  sug- 
gested to  old  Threpps — he  's  my  house-master, 
y'  know — to  put  an  ad.  in  the  papers :  'Why  don't 
you  send  your  fool  kid  to  Threpps?  He  'd  knock 
the  stuffing  out  of  him  in  no  time !'  I  suggested 
it  to  several  of  the  fellows,  and  they  said  it  was 
as  good  as  a  Rattigan  ad.  in  the  Baker  Street 
trains." 

Jordan  grew  didactic.  "The  time  is  coming, 
Jimmy,"  he  replied  with  some  gravity,  "when 
everybody  will  have  to  advertise — even  your  poli- 
ticians." 

"My  hat!"  exclaimed  that  Harrovian  cynic. 
"There  is  n't  an  advertising  dodge  politicians 
don't  understand.  When  they  're  fed  up  with 
advertising  themselves,  they  advertise  their  wives 
and  children ;  and  when  that  little  stunt 's  ex- 
hausted, they  advertise  their  own  incapacity." 

Jordan  looked  pensive.  "I  guess  you  're  about 
right,  Jimmy!"  he  agreed.  Then  he  turned  to 
Amelia.  "Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Osborne !  I  have  an 
appointment  to  show  someone  over  my  house." 

"Not  an  interviewer?"  exclaimed  Olive. 

"Sure,"  replied  Jordan.  "He 's  bringing  a 
photographer  with  him :  that 's  why  I  'm  all 


THREADS  27 

dressed  up  with  somewhere  to  go.  Rattigan  will 
be  mightily  pleased;  he  likes  his  staff  to  obtain 
plenty  of  publicity.  I  '11  call  in  to-morrow  and 
take  you  out  in  my  car,  if  I  may?"  he  concluded 
with  that  upward  inflection  that  no  one  but  a  well- 
educated  American  can  produce  with  the  same 
subtle  delicacy — an  inflection  that  is  like  a  grace- 
note  in  music. 

Amelia  felt  the  immenence  of  the  sword  of  con- 
fession hanging  over  her  head,  and  sighed.  "I  'm 
afraid  I  can't  go,  Mr.  Jordan,"  she  said  regret- 
fully. "But  perhaps  Olive — "  she  suggested. 

Amelia  had  in  conversation  that  rather  attrac- 
tive trick  of  omitting  to  conclude  a  sentence.  It 
is  a  kind  of  appeal  to  the  intelligence  of  the  person 
addressed — a  compliment. 

"That 's  too  bad,"  said  Jordan,  his  manner  a 
mixture  of  chivalrous  deference  to  Amelia's 
ultimatum,  disappointment  at  her  refusal,  and 
agreeable  surprise  at  the  delightful  alternative. 
A  man  who  can  be  convincingly  agreeable  to  two 
women  at  the  same  time,  and  can  make  one  realize 
how  disappointed  he  is  and  the  other  how  de- 
lighted he  is  with  so  little  effort,  should  go  far 
in  whatever  career  he  decides  to  adopt.  But 
Jordan  was  sufficiently  simple  not  to  realize  how 
popular  he  was  with  women. 

"If  Miss  Osborne  will  honor  me — "  he  began. 


28  THREADS 

"Miss  Osborne  will  consider  the  matter  favor- 
ably," replied  Olive  demurely. 

"That's  bully!"  said  Jordan.  "Well,  I  must 
say  au  'voir,  Mrs.  Osborne."  He  shook  hands 
with  Olive,  a  tiny  twinkle  of  amusement  in  his 
eye.  "Be  good,  Jimmy,"  he  concluded,  grasping 
that  young  man's  limp  and  unresponsive  hand. 

Jimmy,  who  hated  shaking  hands  unnecessarily, 
followed  him  to  the  drive,  saw  him  start  off  in 
the  direction  of  Chorley  Wood,  not  out  of  polite- 
ness, but  because  he  wanted  to  listen  to  the  run- 
ning of  the  new  car's  engines;  then  he  returned  to 
his  mother  and  sister,  whistling  "The  Wedding 
Glide." 

"I  wonder  how  he  manages  to  wangle  his 
petrol,"  said  Jimmy. 

Olive  looked  at  her  mother  a  little  uneasily. 
"Why  can't  you  go  to-morrow,  mother?"  she  in- 
quired. "Is  Seppy  coming  over?" 

Amelia  sighed.  The  dreaded  moment  had 
come.  "Children,"  she  said,  burying  her  face  in 
a  basket  of  roses,  "I  want  to  have  a  serious  talk 
with  you." 

"Why,  mother?"  asked  Olive.  "Has  anything 
happened?" 

"What  makes  you  ask  that  question?"  replied 
Amelia,  still,  woman-like,  playing  for  time. 

Olive  laughed  impatiently.  "Well,  it 's  fairly 
obvious,  is  n't  it?"  she  said.  "Even  Jimmy  can't 


THREADS  29 

believe  you  're  just  ordinarily  normal  to-day,  can 
you,  Jimmy?" 

James  was  very  matter-of-fact.  "I  don't  know 
what  'ordinarily  normal'  is  with  regard  to 
women,"  he  remarked;  "but  I  jolly  well  know 
that  the  mater  's  on  the  verge  of  blubbering." 

Amelia  looked  up  at  him  appealingly.  "If  you 
knew  everything  you  wouldn't  blame  me,"  she 
said,  making  preparations  for  tears  with  a  dainty 
but  diminutive  handkerchief.  It  was  even  more 
difficult  than  she  had  anticipated.  Children  were 
rather  hard  nowadays — not  very  responsive.  If 
only  she  could  go  to  bed  and  sleep,  and  leave 
things  to  adjust  themselves! 

"We  don't  blame  you,  my  dear,"  replied  Olive 
calmly;  "but  we  're  perfectly  prepared  to  be  told 
everything.  So  go  ahead!" 

"I  'm  trying  to,"  said  Amelia,  nervously  swal- 
lowing a  lump  in  her  throat. 

"If  you  only  realized" — she  added;  then, 
catching  Olive's  reproving  eye,  she  pulled  herself 
together  and  made  the  plunge. 

"Something  very  strange  has  happened,"  she 
said — "something  that  will  alter  the  whole  scheme 
of  our  lives." 

"Great  Caesar's  ghost!"  exclaimed  Jimmy, 
greatly  perturbed.  "You  have  n't  lost  all  your 
tin?" 

"Don't  be  such  a  goose,  Jimmy,"  said  Olive. 


30  THREADS 

"If  mother  had  lost  her  money  she  would  n't 
be  taking  it  so  calmly!" 

Amelia  protested.  "Calmly?"  she  echoed. 
She  blew  her  nose  and  dabbed  her  eyes.  "Child, 
you  don't  understand!" 

To  tell  people  they  don't  understand  is  no  doubt 
very  effective  on  the  stage,  judging  by  the  average 
playwright's  predilection  for  the  phrase,  but  in 
real  life  it  is  apt  to  prove  an  irritant — especially 
to  tKe  younger  generation.  The  younger  genera- 
tion understands  most  things;  that  is  to  say,  it 
can  read  the  pessimists  without  missing  a  meal. 

Amelia  recovered  herself  a  little  and  repeated 
the  unfortunate  phrase. 

"No,  mother,"  said  Olive  soothingly;  "but,  as 
I  said  before,  I  'm  waiting  to  be  told." 

"Children  are  not  very  sympathetic  nowadays," 
Amelia  protested,  biting  her  lip. 

"We  like  to  be  told  the  truth,"  replied  Olive 
with  all  the  directness  of  the  hockey-playing 
school-girl.  "We  can't  afford  to  indulge  in  sen- 
timentality and  other  early-Victorian  luxuries. 
That 's  why  we  look  such  guys  in  full  skirts — or 
some  of  us  do." 

"You  may  have  noticed  that  I  have  appeared 
a  little  upset,"  continued  Amelia;  then,  seeing 
Olive's  impatient  movement,  she  added :  "I  had  a 
letter  this  morning  from  my  solicitor." 


THREADS  31 

"Did  he  want  to  marry  you?"  inquired  Jimmy, 
speaking  as  a  man  having  authority. 

uGood  gracious,  no !"  replied  Amelia,  a  little 
puzzled.  "Why  should  he?" 

James  frowned.  "I  know  what  lawyers  are. 
Should  n't  be  surprised  if  he  has  embezzled  your 
money  and  wants  to  marry  you  so  that  you  '11  hush 
it  up,"  he  suggested. 

"Really,  Jimmy !  Do  you  believe  in  nothing  ?" 
Amelia  protested. 

"You  should  hear  what  some  of  the  men  at 
Harrow  have  got  to  say  about  lawyers,"  replied 
that  youthful  cynic;  "I  wonder  they  dare  show 
their  faces — some  of  them,  anyway." 

Olive  begged  her  young  brother  to  cease  inter- 
rupting. "Go  on,  mother,"  she  added,  turning  to 
Amelia.  "You  had  a  letter  from  your  solicitor?" 

"Giving  me  some  very  startling  intelligence," 
continued  Amelia  unsteadily. 

"Quiet,  Jimmy,"  said  Olive,  seeing  that  he  was 
about  to  interrupt.  "Yes,  mother!  What  was 
it?" 

Amelia  took  the  plunge ;  the  water  looked  cold, 
but  it  was  still  colder  on  the  brink.  "It  was  some- 
thing— it  had  something  to  do  with  your  father," 
she  said. 

Jimmy  whistled  reflectively.  The  conversation 
was  becoming  too  intimate  for  him.  He  fidgeted. 

Olive   glared   at   him.     She   too   was   embar- 


32  THREADS 

rassed;  but  curiosity  occasionally  conquers 
feminine  shrinking. 

"You  Ve  scarcely  ever  spoken  to  us  of  our 
father,  have  you,  mother?"  she  replied  encour- 
agingly. "And  we  feel  it  only  right  that  we  should 
know  something  about  him.  Won't  you  tell  us, 
please?" 

"I  Ve  been  trying  to,"  protested  Amelia  help- 
lessly; "but  you  will  keep  on  interrupting." 

"Jimmy  won't  interrupt  again,"  said  Olive. 

Jimmy  became  indignant.  "I  like  that,"  he  re- 
marked. 

Olive  sighed. 

Amelia  continued.  "You  are  neither  of  you  old 
enough  to  remember  your  father.  Olive  was 
scarcely  three  when  he — he  left  us;  and  James  was 
born  three  months  afterward." 

"Girls  always  try  to  push  in  first,"  said  Jimmy 
reflectively, 

"What  did  he  die  of,  mother?"  asked  Olive 
gently. 

Amelia  drew  a  long  breath.  "He  did  n't  die," 
she  whispered. 

"Mother!"  said  Olive,  startled  out  of  her  calm- 
ness. 

"He  is  still  living,"  continued  her  mother. 

"Great  Scotland  Yard!"  exclaimed  Jimmy. 
"Where  is  he?" 


THREADS  33 

"He  is  coming  home  to-day,"  replied  Amelia, 
"Arthur  has  gone  to  meet  him." 

Olive  and  Jimmy  looked  at  each  other. 

"After  fifteen  years,"  said  Amelia,  gazing  into 
the  distance. 

"But  where  has  he  been  all  this  time?"  inquired 
Jimmy,  frowning. 

Amelia  began  to  feel  flurried.  "I  wish  you 
children  would  allow  me  to  tell  my  story  in  my 
own  way,"  she  protested  weakly. 

"Don't  interrupt  the  mater  again,  Olive,"  said 
Jimmy. 

"It 's  a  long  story,"  continued  Amelia. 

"Then  cut  it  short,  mater,  and  come  to  the 
point,"  replied  Jimmy.  Man-like,  he  had  a 
prejudice  against  agony  long  drawn  out. 

"Yes,  mother,"  agreed  Olive;  "let's  have  the 
facts  first  and  the  explanations  later." 

Amelia  sighed.  Her  children  were  so  direct, 
so  practical.  Her  own  instincts  lay  in  the  direc- 
tion of  camouflaging  her  facts  with  excuses, 
explanations  and  emotions.  The  younger  genera- 
tion nowadays  laugh  at  a  coup  de  tfiedtre;  it  has 
turned  mleodrama,  so  beloved  by  our  fathers,  into 
farce.  What  their  children's  tastes  will  be  it  is 
difficult  to  forecast! 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Amelia,  "my  name — > 
our  name — is  not  Osborne.  Your  father's  name 
is  John  Osborne  Wynn," 


34  THREADS 

"Damn  it  all,"  said  Jimmy.  "It 's  almost  as 
bad  as  Mr.  Herman  Ikenstein  becoming  Mc- 
Pherson  or  Curzon." 

"When  he — he  went  away,  I  dropped  the 
Wynn  and  became  Mrs.  Osborne,"  continued 
Amelia. 

"Was  there  any  particular  reason,  mother?" 
inquired  Olive. 

"Yes,"  replied  Amelia.  "Your  father's  uncle, 
Richard  Osborne,  from  whom  we  inherited  our 
money,  made  a  point  of  it.  And  there  was 
another  reason,"  she  added  again,  biting  her  lip. 

"Another  reason  for  changing  our  name?" 
asked  Olive,  puzzled. 

"Yes ;  it  was  for  your  sake  more  than  for  my 
own,"  said  Amelia. 

Olive  reflected.  "Fifteen  years  ago,"  she  mur- 
mured. "Nineteen  hundred  and  two." 

"I  wish  I  had  Olive's  head  for  figures,"  said 
Jimmy  admiringly. 

"Had  father  done  anything  you  were  ashamed 
of?"  inquired  Olive. 

"No,"  whispered  Amelia. 

"Thank  goodness!"  exclaimed  Jimmy.  "A 
man  at  Harrow  can't  be  too  careful  who  his 
father  was." 

Olive  pondered.  What  was  the  explanation? 
Had  he  expressed  political  or  sociological  views 
a  trifle  less  antiquated  than  those  of  the  majority? 


THREADS  35 

Had  he  written  a  problem  play?  Had  he  been 
mixed  up  in  a  scandal?  Had  he  done  some- 
thing? 

"His  name  had  come  before  the  public  in  a 
very  prominent  fashion;  I  wanted  the  past  to  be 
forgotten,"  said  Amelia. 

"Great  Scott !"  exclaimed  Jimmy.  "He  had  n't 
been  mixed  up  in  a  divorce  case?" 

Amelia  protested. 

"Do  you  mean  he  had  committed  some  crime?" 
asked  Olive. 

"No!"  replied  Amelia  fiercely.  "Children," 
she  pleaded,  "I  stood  by  your  father,  believed 
in  him,  encouraged  him,  and  I  hope — I  think  I 
helped  him  to  bear  his  cruel  punishment."  She 
paused  for  a  moment,  searching  for  further 
words.  "I  loved  him,"  she  added  simply. 

The  simplicity  went  home.  "That 's  all  right, 
mater,"  said  Jimmy  a  little  huskily. 

"We  understand,"  said  Olive,  squeezing  her 
mother's  hand.  There  was  a  slight  pause  during 
which  Jimmy  meditated  flight  and  Olive  puzzled 
her  brain  for  the  right  word  in  the  right  place. 

"I  have  lived  on  the  memory  of  that  love," 
continued  Amelia  in  a  low  voice.  "I  never  ex- 
pected to  see  him  again.  Now  that  I  shall  see 
him  in  less  than  an  hour,  I  am — frightened." 

She  shivered  a  little  in  spite  of  the  warm  after- 
noon sun. 


36  THREADS 

Olive  frowned;  her  perplexity  increased.  "Do 
you  mean  you  are  frightened  of  his  finding  out 
that  Seppy  and  Mr.  Jordan  and  most  of  the  men 
who  come  here  are  in  love  with  you?"  she  asked. 

Jimmy  pinched  her  arm.  "Shut  up !"  he  whis- 
pered. "Women  have  n't  any  tact." 

Olive  rubbed  her  arm  ruefully.  Boys  were  so 
rough  in  their  methods,  and  a  bare  arm  with  a 
yellow  bruise  would  scarcely  be  becoming. 

Amelia  shivered.  "He  will  find  me — differ- 
ent," she  said.  "He  left  me  a  girl — full  of  love 
for  him,  full  of  longing  for  him ;  he  will  find  me 
a  middle-aged  woman." 

"People  often  take  you  for  my  sister — at  least, 
men  do,"  said  Olive  meditatively. 

It  was  perfectly  true.  Amelia  was  the  kind  of 
woman  time  had  a  habit  of  overlooking. 

"He  has  n't  seen  me  for  fifteen  years;  he  won't 
know  me,"  continued  Amelia. 

It  was  Olive's  turn  to  shiver.  She  knew  it  was 
her  duty  to  soothe  her  mother's  fears,  but  she 
was  too  young  and  too  self-conscious  to  attempt 
to  be  convincing.  There  is  one  priceless  quality 
in  youth:  it  never  pays  compliments. 

"What  caused  this  break?"  inquired  Olive. 

"Your  father  was  accused  of  killing  another 
man ;  he  was  convicted  and  sentenced  to  be — " 

"Don't,  mother!"  interrupted  Olive,  catching 
her  breath. 


THREADS  37 

"The  sentence  was  commuted  to  penal  servi- 
tude for  life,"  said  her  mother. 

"Was  he  guilty?"  asked  Olive  in  a  whisper. 

"No,"  replied  Amelia. 

"Did  you  believe  him  guilty?" 

"No,"  replied  Amelia;  "I  never  believed  him 
guilty.  He  had  such  a  sweet  nature.  Besides,  he 
told  me  it  was  n't  true,  and  he  never  lied — about 
anything.  His  passion  for  the  truth  made  him  a 
little  unpopular." 

"Then  why  is  he  coming  back?"  inquired  Olive, 
puzzled. 

"The  Home  Office  has  just  found  out  who  com- 
mitted the  crime,"  said  Amelia.  "It  has  taken 
them  fifteen  years  to  find  it  out !" 

"I  Ve  always  heard  that  government  depart- 
ments moved  slowly,"  mused  Olive. 

"Your  father  has  received  the  King's  pardon. 
He  was  released  this  morning,"  said  Amelia,  al- 
most as  though  she  were  repeating  a  lesson. 

James,  with  masculine  logic,  intervened.  "If 
he  was  n't  guilty,  why  should  the  King  pardon 
him?"  he  inquired. 

"I  think  it 's  what  they  call  a  legal  fiction," 
said  his  mother.  "I  don't  exactly  know  what  a 
legal  fiction  is,  but  it 's  something  that  lawyers 
find  very  useful  at  times,  and  I  think  this  must 
be  one  of  them." 

James  grunted  scornfully.     "I  suppose  what 


38  THREADS 

he 's  really  pardoned  for  his  having  consumed 
government  rations  for  fifteen  years  without  be- 
ing entitled  to  them,"  he  suggested. 

James  was  only  a  school-boy,  but  he  had  a  won- 
derful comprehension  of  the  official  mind.  Even 
the  babes  in  arms  were  beginning  to  distrust  the 
permanent  officials  in  1917. 

"They've  robbed  him  of  fifteen  years  of  life," 
said  Olive  thoughtfully,  "and  instead  of  apolo- 
gizing they  offer  to  pardon  him!  The  arrogance 
— the  inhumanity  of  it!" 

"When  men  become  machines  they  naturally 
become  inhuman,"  said  Amelia. 

"If  the  army  knew  how  to  dig  in  as  safely  as 
the  law  does,  the  war  would  be  over,"  said  Jimmy 
cynically.  "The  men  at  Harrow  say  that  law- 
yers make  two  laws — one  for  themselves  and  the 
other  for  the  public." 

Olive  suddenly  became  conscience-stricken. 
"Mother,"  she  said,  "I  'm  sorry  if  I  Ve  sometimes 
been  horrid  and  irritable."  She  looked  at  Amelia 
wonderingly.  "How  you  must  have  suffered!" 
she  added,  a  little  awed  by  her  mother's  expres- 
sion. 

"I  don't  suffer  now,"  replied  Amelia  quietly. 
"I  am  only  dazed.  I  wish  I  could  suffer,"  she  ex- 
claimed, her  voice  losing  its  calmness,  her  nerves 
quivering. 

For  fifteen  years  she  had  lived  in  a  dream,  and 


THREADS  39 

she  dreaded  the  awakening.  For  fifteen  years 
she  had  nursed  her  tragic  story,  had  guarded  it 
from  her  children,  wept  over  it  in  secret,  and  all 
the  time  had  outwardly  lived  the  life  of  a  woman 
fond  of  society  and  amusement.  And  now  that 
the  story  had  to  be  told,  the  wrappings  torn  off 
and  the  sorrow  exposed  to  the  eyes  of  her  chil- 
dren, she  was  overcome  by  a  sense  of  unreality, 
of  loss  of  identity.  A  man  was  coming  back — > 
after  fifteen  years  in  prison.  Her  husband.  But 
who  was  he?  A  stranger?  The  man  she  loved? 
The  man  she  had  loved — passionately,  to  whom 
she  had  surrendered  herself,  with  whom  she  had 
spent  a  few  years  of  complete  happiness.  But 
now — this  stranger  who  was  already  due  at  the 
station — who  was  he?  What  would  he  be  like? 
Could  they  take  up  the  story  where  they  had 
dropped  it?  Were  they  still  the  same  people? 
Her  brain  quivered  like  a  moving  picture. 

"What  the  dickens  will  they  say  at  Harrow?" 
asked  Jimmy  suddenly. 

"What  does  it  matter  what  a  lot  of  little  boys 
think?"  replied  Olive  contemptuously. 

"Well,  of  all  the  cheek !"  said  Jimmy,  amazed 
at  such  impertinence. 

"How  will  this  affect  Arthur  and  Chloe  ?"  pon- 
dered Olive. 

Arthur,  the  first-born,  was  in  the  Foreign 
Office.  It  was  he  who  had  gone  to  meet  his  re- 


40  THREADS 

leased  father.  Chloe  was  the  daughter  of  Lord 
and  Lady  Gratham,  who  lived  near  Chenies. 
Their  engagement  was  approved  both  at  Chenies 
and  at  Chalfont.  Arthur  was  a  budding  diplo- 
mat and  would  go  far;  that  is  to  say,  he  pos- 
sessed all  the  attributes  of  the  pre-war  diplomat. 
But  in  1917  England  had,  as  a  whole,  failed  to 
realize  that  the  world  had  turned  upside-down. 

"Lord  Gratham  is  very  conservative;  he  may 
object  to  allowing  his  daughter  to  marry  the  son 
of  a  man  who  has  spent  fifteen  years  in  prison," 
said  Amelia. 

"For  a  crime  he  didn't  commit?"  interrupted 
Olive. 

"Lord  Gratham  is  too  conservative  to  reason 
about  anything;  he  prefers  to  be  guided  by  prece- 
dent," said  Amelia. 

"I  always  thought  Arthur  was  a  bit  of  an  ass 
to  tie  himself  up  before  he  had  had  a  good  look 
round,"  remarked  Jimmy. 

Amelia  sighed.  The  Grathams  would  have  to 
be  told.  The  tragedy  of  her  life  would  become 
public  property;  it  would  be  discussed,  deplored, 
argued  about.  The  foundations  of  her  house 
were  crumbling,  and  life  would  have  to  be  faced 
from  a  new  point  of  view. 

Olive's  thoughts  were  in  a  different  key.  Chloe 
was  much  too  modern  to  mind.  Chloe  prided 
herself  on  her  well-balanced  judgment.  She  was 


THREADS  41 

wonderfully  lacking  in  prejudice — the  little  preju- 
dices on  which  the  whole  system  of  English 
society  is  built.  Besides,  if  Chloe  could  stand 
Arthur  being  a  Cuthbert,  she  could  stand  any- 
thing. It  was  a  bitter  pill  both  for  Olive  and 
Jimmy  that  their  elder  brother  lay  snugly  in  a 
government  funk-hole  and  had  no  ambition  to  get 
into  khaki. 

Amelia  offered  no  opinion  in  the  "matter; 
Arthur  was  of  age,  and  had  a  right  to  his  own 
views. 

Olive  turned  to  her  mother.  "Of  course 
you  Ve  written  to  father  and  told  him  all  about 
us,  and  where  we  are,  and  everything,"  she  said. 

"No,"  replied  Amelia. 

"Mother!" 

"The  last  time  I  saw  him,  just  before  his  trial, 
he  made  me  promise  that  if  the  worst  happened 
and  they  found  him  guilty,  and  if  then  by  any 
chance  the  sentence  was  changed  to — to  penal 
servitude  for  life,  I  would,  for  your  sake,  treat 
him  as  though  he  were — " 

Amelia  choked  a  little  and  bit  her  lip  hard. 

Olive  gave  a  gasp  of  admiration.  "I  think  that 
was  rather  fine  of  him,"  she  said. 

"Dashed  sporting,"  echoed  Jimmy. 

"But  how  could  you,  mother?"  asked  Olive. 

It  was  not  easy  to  answer  such  a  question.  To 
Amelia  the  promise  asked  of  her  seemed  natural 


42  THREADS 

and  right;  for  her  husband  had  always  had  an. 
unconventional  outlook  on  life,  together  with 
what  her  own  relations  considered  "curious" 
ideas.  She  had  adopted  his  ideas  as  her  own — 
to  save  argument.  But  women,  though  rebels  to 
law,  are  slaves  to  custom,  and  you  rarely  find  a 
woman  who  sincerely  differs  from  the  majority 
in  her  thoughts.  If  a  man  is  convinced  by  his 
own  postulates,  he  cares  nothing  for  other  peo- 
ple's opinions;  but  women  are  martyrs  to  appear- 
ances. A  woman  will  scrub  floors,  but  she  hates 
to  be  seen  scrubbing  them.  A  woman  is  never 
ashamed  of  her  domestic  talents,  but  she  hates 
to  feel  that  the  neighbors  realize  she  has  no 
servants.  It  is  not  "service"  that  women  despise, 
it  is  the  badge  of  servitude.  In  country  villages, 
a  woman  never  comes  in  to  scrub,  she  comes  to 
"oblige."  Women  are  casuists  in  thought,  men 
are  casuists  in  politics.  A  woman  married  to  a 
man  with  views  different  from  the  majority  suffers 
horribly.  She  may  be  intensely  loyal  to  her  hus- 
band, but  in  her  thoughts  she  is  unable  to  refrain 
from  an  occasional  regret  that  he  does  not  think 
as  the  others  do.  Amelia  had  grown  used  to 
her  husband's  quarrel  with  convention;  she  often 
said,  "I  'm  sure  you're  right,  dear;  but — oh,  I  do 
wish  our  friends  would  realize  how  mistaken  they 
were." 

John,  an  ironist  himself,  merely  chuckled. 


THREADS  43 

When  the  crash  came,  John  said  to  his  wife: 
"If  they  hang  me,  or  if  they  shut  me  up  for  life, 
it  amounts  to  the  same  thing:  in  either  case,  you 
will  never  see  me  again.  For  the  sake  of  our  chil- 
dren, try  to  forget  me" ;  and  Amelia  accepted  this 
ultimatum  as  she  accepted  his  views  of  life.  Be- 
sides, he  had  always  held  extraordinary  opinions 
as  to  the  duties  of  parents  to  their  children.  He 
hated  to  see  youth  used  as  a  crutch  for  age. 

"I  was  very  ill  at  the  time,"  said  Amelia 
reminiscently ;  "it  was  just  before  Jimmy  was 
born.  I  could  n't  fight  his  will.  I  gave  in — and 
promised.  I  have  kept  my  promise,  but  it  has 
left  me  numbed — as  though  all  my  nerves  had 
suffered  from  a  terrible  shock,  leaving  me  almost 
without  feeling." 

"Why  could  n't  they  find  out  the  truth  at  the 
trial?"  inquired  Olive. 

"He  was  badly  defended;  the  judge  was  biased, 
and  you  know  what  a  British  jury  is  in  the  hands 
of  a  clever  lawyer,"  replied  Amelia. 

"We  know  what  the  jolly  old  country  's  like, 
now  it 's  run  by  lawyers,"  murmured  Jimmy. 


CHAPTER  IV 

First  Lord:  Your  Maj  sty,  he  is  mad!    He  wants  to  alter  things! 
King:  We  will  have  him  examined  by  our  court  physician. 
First  Lord:  His  contempt  for  permanent  officials  is  truly  painful. 
King  (graciously):  I  am  always  on  the  side  of  anything  permanent. 

If  you  wish,  I  will  cut  off  his  head  ? 

First  Lord:  Your  Majesty,  he  laughs  at  our  titles  and  ordersl 
King  (relieved):  Then  -we  will  create  him  a  duke. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  3. 

JOHN  OSBORNE  WYNN,  before  the  tragic  events 
that  led  to  his  fifteen  years  of  exile  on  the  Dor- 
setshire coast,  had  been  a  popular  publicist;  that 
is  to  say,  he  wrote  brilliant  comments  on  the 
events  of  the  moment  for  a  popular  journal. 
The  journal  was  popular,  though  the  views  ex- 
pressed by  Wynn  were  rarely  taken  seriously;  but 
his  articles  were  "featured,"  and  people  grew 
accustomed  to  saying  to  their  friends  when  any- 
thing startling  occurred:  "I  wonder  what  Wynn 
will  say  about  itl" 

Wynn  was  in  the  unfortunate  position  of  being 
taken  seriously  when  displaying  his  gift  of  irony, 
and  of  being  rewarded  with  appreciative  chuckles 
when  in  deadly  earnest.  Irony  has  never  been 
very  popular  in  England,  and  never  will  be.  He 
anticipated  Shaw  in  upsetting  people's  precon- 
ceived opinions.  He  used  a  bludgeon  to  squash 

44 


THREADS  45 

political  folly  and  insincerity;  Ihe  annoyed  poli- 
ticians, but  their  heads  were  too  hard  to  receive 
any  serious  hurt.  On  the  whole,  the  government 
found  him  rather  a  nuisance,  for  he  had  a  very 
clear  and  logical  brain;  and  when  they  had  been 
patting  themselves  on  the  back  with  regard  to 
some  ingenious  scheme  of  party  politics,  or  con- 
cerning the  management  of  the  South  African 
War,  he  invariably  annoyed  them  by  pulling  the 
scheme  to  pieces  and  proving  its  absurdity.  He 
made  people  question  things — things  that  had 
never  been  questioned  before.  He  was  a  re- 
former; and  reformers  have  never  been  popular 
— in  England.  Of  course,  they  could  not  send 
him  to  prison  for  having  ideas — even  in  England ; 
but  he  was  one  of  the  few  men  who  had  foreseen 
the  war  with  Germany,  and  he  was  always  both- 
ering the  government  about  it,  and  it  grew  angry. 
He  had  studied  the  German  spy  system,  and  had 
discovered  some  amazing  facts;  but  the  police 
laughed  at  him,  and  the  Foreign  Office  snubbed 
him. 

Wynn  had  very  little  faith  in  anyone  in  the 
political  world,  and  had  searched  in  vain  for  a 
new  star  on  the  political  horizon.  Naturally,  he 
was  not  popular  with  the  dying  Tories;  his  barbs 
were  beginning  to  hurt.  And  he  was  equally 
unpopular  with  the  young  hopefuls  of  the  Liberal 
party,  for  Wynn  hated  and  distrusted  Germany, 


46  THREADS 

and  the  young  Liberals  were  salaaming  to  every- 
thing German. 

Wynn  had  a  special  reason  for  hating  the  Ger- 
mans. His  sister,  to  whom  he  was  very  devoted, 
was  married  to  a  German  who  illtreated  her 
shamefully  and  flaunted  his  unfaithfulness  in  her 
face,  while  taking  good  care  to  keep  well  within 
the  letter  of  the  law.  Wynn  hated  everything 
tricky  and  insincere — including  lawyers;  and  he 
had  a  wholesome  horror  of  their  methods.  He 
had  threatened  to  thrash  his  brother-in-law  unless 
that  choice  specimen  of  Teutonic  Kultur  mended 
his  ways;  but  his  brother-in-law  was  very  popular 
in  society  and  on  the  turf,  had  been  cartooned  in 
Faulty  Fair,  and  was  a  member  of  several  exclu- 
sive clubs. 

There  had  been  one  or  two  scenes  before  wit- 
nesses; and  when  the  Baron  Frederic  William 
Karl  Augustus  von  Freidmann  was  found  in  his 
garden  at  Shooter's  Hill,  shot  through  the  heart, 
with  a  revolver  belonging  to  Wynn  within  a  yard 
of  him,  and  when  the  revolver  was  found  to  con- 
tain five  unexploded  cartridges  and  one  that  had 
been  used,  the  circumstantial  evidence  against 
Wynn  was  almost  overwhelming,  and  he  was  ar- 
rested that  evening. 

When  brought  before  a  magistrate  the  next 
morning  and  asked  why  he  carried  a  revolver, 
Wynn  stated  that  it  was  beacuse  his  life  had  been 


THREADS  47 

threatened  by  German  spies.  The  magistrate 
ridiculed  his  statement,  and  committed  him  for 
trial.  When  asked  to  explain  how  his  revolver 
happened  to  be  in  the  Baron's  garden,  Wynn  re- 
plied that  he  had  lost  it  the  night  before,  that  it 
had  been  taken  out  of  his  overcoat  pocket  while  he 
was  sitting  in  a  well-known  German  beer-hall  near 
Piccadilly  Circus,  watching  certain  men  he  sus- 
pected of  being  spies.  He  had  been  unable  to 
prove  an  alibi;  he  had  long  been  suspicious  of 
his  brother-in-law's  friendly  intentions.  It  had 
puzzled  him  at  first  that  a  man  so  fond  of  society 
and  so  popular  with  his  friends  should  prefer  to 
live  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  spot  as  Shooter's 
Hill.  One  could  see  the  river,  Woolwich  Arsenal, 
the  Royal  Artillery  Barracks.  If,  in  an  enemy 
attack  on  London,  Woolwich  Arsenal  were  frit 
by  a  shell — 

On  the  night  in  question,  disguised  and  un- 
recognizable, he  had  followed  the  men  from  the 
Gambrinus;  he  had  lost  them  at  Cannon  Street, 
but  had  picked  up  their  trail  at  London  Bridge, 
and  had  lost  it  again  at  Woolwich.  He  was  ar- 
rested as  a  loiterer,  his  disguise  discovered,  his 
identity  proved,  two  hours  after  his  brother-in- 
law  was  found  shot. 

It  would  take  a  genius  to  extricate  himself  from 
such  a  net  of  circumstantial  evidence. 

The  Baron's  death  caused  general  grief;  there 


48  THREADS 

were  royal  messages  of  condolence.  The  papers 
spoke  of  his  qualities  as  a  sportsman.  And  cer- 
tain gentlemen  in  the  Wilhelmstrasse  chuckled  to 
themselves  at  one  more  proof  of  the  incurable 
stupidity  of  the  English. 

Wynn  was  tried  for  murder  and  sentenced  to 
death.  Suddenly,  for  no  conceivable  reason,  a 
wave  of  sentimentality  broke  over  his  head. 
There  were  letters  to  the  newspapers,  public 
appeals  to  the  Home  Secretary,  an  extraordinary 
agitation.  They  had  suddenly  remembered  that 
Wynn  was  a  public  character,  and  that  nothing 
he  did  should  be  taken  too  seriously.  Eventually 
the  Home  Office  commuted  his  sentence  to  penal 
servitude  for  life,  and  the  public  conscience 
breathed  again. 

London  missed  his  weekly  article,  but  soon 
forgot  him  in  the  excitement  of  the  postponed 
coronation. 

In  the  spring  of  1917  the  police  raided  a  sus- 
pected house  occupied  by  a  naturalized  German 
who  had  expressed  strong  pro-British  sentiments; 
it  was  a  surprise  raid,  giving  no  time  for  papers 
to  be  destroyed.  The  house  had  been  a  center 
for  German  espionage.  The  man's  wife  had  been 
active  in  Red  Cross  work,  and  his  daughters  inti- 
mate with  girls  of  established  social  position  not 
unconnected  with  politics.  But  in  spite  of  this, 
papers  were  found  proving  that  the  Baron  von 


THREADS  49 

Friedmann  had  been  a  prominent  official  in  the 
German  secret  service,  that  his  murder  had  been 
arranged  by  certain  men  at  the  Wilhelmstrasse 
in  order  to  get  rid  of  Wynn,  who  had  been  finding 
out  too  much,  and  to  punish  von  Friedmann,  who 
had  behaved  indiscreetly  in  his  cups. 

The  German  Secret  Service  is  rarely  senti- 
mental, and  the  Baron  was  given  to  boasting. 
He  was  shot  in  his  own  garden,  and  Wynn's  re- 
volver was  stolen  for  the  purpose.  Witnesses 
had  been  paid  to  incriminate  him,  and  everything 
arranged  with  craft  and  that  peculiar  conscien- 
tiousness so  dear  to  the  German  mind.  Germany 
had  to  get  rid  of  Wynn,  and  of  course  succeeded 
in  her  scheme.  But  Wynn  had  foiled  her  by 
omitting  to  be  hanged.  He  had  lost  fifteen  years 
of  his  life,  and  he  was  returning  to  his  wife  and 
family  to  begin  life  all  over  again. 

The  situation  was  sufficiently  ironical  to  appeal 
to  his  humor,  and  there  was  a  grim  twinkle  in  his 
eye  when  he  addressed  his  son  Arthur  at  Water- 
loo Station  with  the  words:  "I  think  you  must  be 
my  son !  You  're  so  like  your  mother." 


CHAPTER  V 

First  Sycophant:  He  is  a  young  man  of  parts. 
Reformer:  Of  parts  that  have  no  magnitude. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  2. 

IF  it  had  been  a  trying  day  for  Amelia,  it  had  also 
been  a  trying  day  for  Arthur.  He  had  come 
down  to  breakfast  at  peace  with  all  the  world. 
After  all,  the  world  had  always  been  particularly 
kind  to  him.  Four  years  at  a  preparatory  school 
in  French  Switzerland  had  been  rather  decent; 
he  had  acquired  a  knowledge  of  French  and  Ger- 
man that  had  been  of  inestimable  value  to  him. 
In  fact,  he  was  a  far  better  French  scholar  than 
the  Foreign  Secretary  himself.  He  was  a  master 
of  those  little  intimate  phrases  of  French  slang 
that  labeled  him  a  cosmopolitan.  He  was  an 
adept  at  winter  sports,  and  was  a  strict  upholder 
of  etiquette  on  the  ice  and  good  form  on  a  luge. 
'At  Harrow  he  made  up  for  his  deficiencies  in 
'English  grammar  and  mathematics  by  his  amaz- 
ing— for  an  English  school-boy — knowledge  of 
French.  It  was  true  that  he  never  could  remem- 
ber how  many  r's  there  were  in  Mediterranean, 
or  whether  you  spelt  receive  with  an  "ei"  or  an 
"ie";  and  it  was  a  physical  impossibility  for  him 

50 


THREADS  51 

to  construct  a  grammatical  sentence.  But  in  writ- 
ing mandarin  English  he  had  no  equal.  After  all, 
to  write  mandarin  English  and  to  make  it  mean 
anything  at  all  is  some  feat.  One  sometimes 
wonders  whether  there  is  a  special  school  main- 
tained by  government  officials  for  teaching  civil 
servants  to  avoid  clearness  of  meaning. 

He  had  lounged  through  Cambridge,  reading 
when  necessary,  and  had  been  carefully  steered 
through  his  "exams"  by  a  competent  coach.  He 
had  belonged  to  a  swank  set;  that  is  to  say,  a 
set  of  men  who  prided  themselves  on  being  them- 
selves to  the  wth  degree.  They  were  good  form 
— as  the  phrase  is  understood  by  the  unimagina- 
tive youth  of  ample  means  and  little  intelligence; 
they  took  a  patronizing  interest  in  politics,  and 
read  studiously,  but  without  much  profit,  a  num- 
ber of  "precious"  books  and  plays.  Enthusiasm 
was  tabu;  each  cultivated  a  blase  exterior  and  a 
self-assured,  self-possessed,  self-complacent  man- 
ner. They  reminded  one  of  modern  politicians 
grown  younger  in  looks,  but  with  the  same  intel- 
lectual swank. 

From  Cambridge  to  the  Foreign  Office  was  no 
sea-change;  but  the  Foreign  Office  developed  the 
ego,  added  to  the  knowledge  of  mandarin 
English,  and  developed  the  gospel  of  the  perma- 
nent official:  "We  are  it:  the  public  exists  for  us, 
not  us  for  the  public."  This  slogan  is  engraved 


52  THREADS 

in  indelible  ink  over  the  portals  of  every  govern- 
ment department,  and  one  hears  on  excellent 
authority  that  the  Ministry  of  Pensions,  the  latest 
convert,  recently  sent  their  office-boy  across  to 
the  Treasury  to  borrow  some  indelible  ink  and  a 
nice  set  of  transfer  letters  that  would  fit  the 
portals  of  Westminster  House. 

When  war  was  declared,  much  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  Foreign  Office,  there  was  a  general 
search  for  the  atlas  supplied  to  that  department 
gratis;  it  was  found  in  the  desk  of  the  junior 
office-boy,  who  was  diligently  searching  through 
it  in  order  to  discover  of  what  country  the  town 
of  Ultimatum  was  the  capital.  It  was  a  frightful 
shock  to  the  Foreign  Office  when  it  realized  how 
near  Germany  was  to  Europe,  and  special  efforts 
were  made  on  behalf  of  those  Germans  who, 
though  resident  in  England,  were  anxious  to  fight 
against  us  and  who  desired  sea  passage  to  their 
own  country.  The  Foreign  Office  sat  up  till  un- 
heard-of hours — some,  it  is  understood,  remained 
until  ten  minutes  to  six,  sacrificing  a  round  of  golf 
— issuing  passports  to  the  German  reservists. 

Arthur,  strolling  across  St.  James's  Park  to 
his  club  after  a  hard  day's  work  (he  had  been  able 
to  take  only  a  hurried  two  hours  for  luncheon, 
and  a  bare  hour  for  tea,  and  when  you  think  that 
it  was  considered  bad  form  to  arrive  at  the  F.O. 
later  than  1 1  a.m.  you  can  figure  to  yourself  how 


THREADS  53 

fatiguing  the  life  must  be!),  pondered  the  situa- 
tion. A  girl  in  white,  with  a  frightfully  fasci- 
nating Ethel  Levy  curl,  smiled  at  him ;  he  stopped 
and  raised  his  hat.  "Allow  me,"  she  said,  and 
presented  him  with  a  white  feather.  He  placed 
it  in  his  cigarette-case,  lighted  another  cigarette, 
and  resumed  his  walk.  Near  the  German  Em- 
bassy, where  von  Kuhlmann  sat  autographing 
photographs  for  his  friends  in  the  Cabinet  and 
the  editors  of  two  morning,  two  evening,  and 
one  solemn  provincial  newspaper,  he  noticed  a  girl 
in  blue  giving  a  frightfully  fascinating  imitation 
of  Gladys  Cooper.  She  noticed  him  and  smiled; 
he  stopped  and  raised  his  Jiat.  "Allow  me,"  she 
said,  and  presented  him  with  a  white  feather. 
"Thanks  awfully:  I've  already  had  mine!  Do 
keep  this  for  someone  else,"  he  urged.  "Thanks," 
she  replied,  "I  hope  I  sha'n't  need  it";  and  she 
turned  her  back  on  him  and  made  tracks  in  the 
direction  of  an  actor-manager  who  happened  to 
be  celebrating  his  sixty-fourth  birthday,  but  who 
was  tremendously  flattered  at  being  considered  of 
military  age.  Placing  the  white  feather  next  to 
his  heart,  he  returned  to  his  house  in  the  most 
exclusive  part  of  Mayfair,  and  read  some  plays 
— that  is  to  say,  he  made  his  secretary  read  them, 
as  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  a  khaki 
part  might  suit  him  very  becomingly. 

Arthur  wandered  up  the  steps  of  his  club — 


54  THREADS 

that  dreadfully  out-of-the-picture  erection  on  the 
left-hand  side  of  Pall  Mall — and  strolled  into  the 
smoking-room. 

"Cheerio,  old  thing!"  cried  one  of  the  friends 
of  his  youth.  "How  many  have  you  got?  I  Ve 
collected  eleven." 

Arthur  neither  liked  being  called  "old  thing" 
nor  being  told  to  cheerio.  But  he  was  always 
courteous.  He  admired  his  friend's  collection  of 
white  feathers,  and  produced  his  own. 

A  very  languid  young  man  with  a  Cyril  Maude 
drawl  lay  stretched  on  a  leather  Chesterfield.: 
He  was  (unpaid)  secretary  to  an  under-secretary, 
and  the  idea  of  war  was  abhorrent  to  him.  It 
meant  such  a  lot  of  work. 

"I  say,  you  fellows,"  he  drawled,  "there's  a 
perfectly  topping  girl  handin'  out  white  feathers 
at  the  corner  by  the  Ritz.  You  ^all  ought  to  go 
and  get  one.  I  got  five  before  she  tumbled  to  it," 
he  added,  chuckling. 

"The  question  before  the  house,"  said  a  tall 
white-faced  youth  with  1820  whiskers,  who  was 
sipping  absinthe  and  smoking  Russian  cigarettes 
on  which  his  monogram  was  engraved — "the 
question  before  the  house  is:  do  we — er — offer 
ourselves  or  do  we  do  our  duty  in  that  state  of 
life  to  which  it  has  pleased  a  grateful  government 
to  call  us?" 


THREADS  55 

The  motion  was  still  being  talked  out  when 
Arthur's  car  was  announced. 

He  returned  to  Chalfont. 

Two  and  a  half  years  later  he  was  still  return- 
ing to  Chalfont;  ,his  chief  considered  him  indis- 
pensable. 

On  this  particular  Saturday  morning  he  had 
come  down  to  breakfast,  as  previously  stated,  at 
peace  with  all  the  world.  His  clothes  were  the 
last  word  in  good  form,  his  boots  were  made  for 
him  by  an  artist;  he  was  engaged  to  a  charming 
girl;  he  had  no  worries.  His  knowledge  of 
French  had  served  him  in  good  stead;  his  chief 
absolutely  refused  to  part  with  him.  Then  en- 
tered Nemesis  in  the  guise  of  Parsons,  the  ideal 
parlor-maid,  with  a  message  to  the  effect  that 
his  mother  wished  to  speak  to  him. 

He  finished  his  breakfast,  glanced  at  the  Times, 
lighted  a  cigarette  ("fifteen  bob  a  hundred;  but 
hardships  were  impossible  to  avoid  in  war-time") , 
and,  going  upstairs,  knocked  at  his  mother's 
door. 

An  hour  later  he  descended  the  stairs,  entered 
his  waiting  car,  and  dashed  off  to  the  station. 

"What's  the  row?"  Olive  had  called  to  him, 
having  noticed  his  abnormal  solemnity. 

"Mother  will  tell  you,"  he  had  replied. 

It  was  a  bit  of  a  facer.  His  mother  had  never 
spoken  of  his  father,  and  he  had  never  bothered 


56  THREADS 

to  press  the  subject.  He  had  imagined  his  father 
to  have  been  one  of  those  amiable  nonentities  that 
masquerade  as  the  head  of  a  household,  die  sud- 
denly, and  leave  a  properly  drawn-up  will  showing 
excellent  investments  in  gilt-edged  securities  for 
the  eldest  son  eventually  to  inherit.  But  to  dis- 
cover that  his  father  was  alive,  that  he  was  return- 
ing to  join  the  family  party,  that  he  would  have 
to  be  considered  and  referred  to,  that  he  might 
be — well,  how  could  a  fellow  know  what  he  would 
be  like? 

Arthur  broke  out  into  a  cold  perspiration. 

His  father  had  spent  fifteen  years  in  prison. 
What  did  a  convict  do?  He  broke  stones. 
Breaking  stones  must  make  the  hands  rough  and 
horny — like  a  laborer's.  He  would  be  obliged 
to  sit  at  the  same  table  with  his  father;  he  would 
watch  those  hands — fascinated  by  the  horror  of 
them.  His  father  might  be  old-fashioned,  with 
a  contempt  for  the  art  of  the  manicurist;  he  might 
have  lost  his  manners  and  have  acquired  horrid 
habits — like  those  frightful  bounders  that  had 
begun  to  crowd  the  first-class  carriages  on  the 
Great  Central :  war  profiteers,  contractors,  muni- 
tion manufacturers,  commercial  travelers.  He 
might,  on  the  other  hand,  be  like  a  man  crushed, 
a  meek  and  watery-eyed  person  who  was  afraid 
of  giving  trouble  and,  because  of  that,  gave 
double ;  a  man  who  started  at  the  hoot  of  a  motor 


THREADS  57 

horn  and  cringed  at  the  sound  of  a  carriage  whip. 
Or  he  might  be  a  man  who  liked  to  talk  of  how 
things  were  done  at  Portland;  he  might  be 
familiar  or,  worse  still,  sentimental;  he  might  be 
the  kind  of  man  who  pawed  a  fellow  about. 

Of  course,  it  was  rough  on  him — deuced  rough. 
After  all,  fifteen  years  out  of  a  man's  life  was 
going  some. 

Arthur  had  studied  American  slang  at  the 
Hippodrome,  and,  like  the  officers  of  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps,  had  adapted  some  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque phrases  to  his  own  use  and  incorporated 
them  in  his  small  but  select  vocabulary. 

There  is  a  snobbish  feature  about  English  slang 
that  detracts  from  its  picturesqueness  and  ob- 
scures its  original  meaning.  When  the  army  first 
borrowed  and  then  commandeered  slang  acquired 
from  American  music-hall  artists,  it  did  so  with 
enthusiasm,  but  got  it  all  wrong.  American  slang 
is  far  more  subtle  than  it  sounds. 

"Good  Lord!"  thought  Arthur  suddenly.  "I 
sha'n't  know  him  when  I  see  him !" 

One  might,  almost  pity  him,  driving  across 
London  in  a  taxicab,  growing  more  and  more 
perturbed  as  the  jhour  of  reunion  drew  nearer. 
Had  Arthur  possessed  a  practical  mind,  he  might 
have  discovered  that  there  is  a  tube  railway  from 
Baker  Street  to  Waterloo,  that  it  is  more  economi- 
cal than  a  taxicab,  and  does  the  journey  in  half 


58  THREADS 

the  time;  but  Arthur  was  a  civil  servant,  and 
therefore  unpractical  by  training.  And,  anyhow, 
why  should  a  fellow  ride  in  those  beastly  tubes? 
Taxis  were  infinitely  pleasanter. 

Waterloo  was  in  its  customary  state  of  turmoil. 
There  was  a  hospital  train  in,  and  the  cot  cases 
were  being  distributed  among  the  waiting  ambu- 
lances. Arthur  watched  the  dexterity  and  pre- 
cision with  which  this  was  done.  He  saw  a  man 
he  knew — an  officer,  with  his  arm  strapped  to  his 
side — being  helped  into  a  waiting  motor-car  that 
was  chauffeured  by  a  girl  in  uniform.  The  officer 
waved  to  him  cEeerily.  "Poor  devil!"  he  called 
out.  "Have  they  made  you  an  indispensable? 
What  rotten  luck !"  And  he  was  driven  off,  smok- 
ing a  cigarette  and  whistling  a  song  from  a  popu- 
lar revue.  He  would  see  that  revue  in  a  few  days 
— at  a  matinee  !  Good  Lord !  What  luck  to  be 
in  Blighty — in  that  jolly  little  hospital  for  officers 
in  Queen  Anne  Street  where  he  knew  all  the  sisters 
and  the  nurses,  and  the  matron  was  a  ripper,  and 
the  medical  officer  such  a  sympathetic  cove.  And 
old  George  with  his  comic  face  would  open  the 
door  and  ask  him  if  he  'd  mind  walking  upstairs 
because  the  lift  was  full  of  tea-trays.  And  he 
could  ring  up  a  girl  who — yes,  it  was  good  to  be 
back  in  London.  But  he  wondered  how  his 
platoon  was  getting  on.  That  chap  Punce  needed 
a  bit  of  encouragement.  And  Jarvis — Jarvis  was 


THREADS  59 

all  right,  but  he  used  to  have  fits  of  shivering. 
And — oh,  well!  he  would  be  back  again  in  a 
couple  of  months;  and,  anyway,  he  was  going  to 
have  a  good  time  now  he  was  here.  He  hoped  he 
would  be  in  Sister  Argyll's  ward. 

Arthur  almost  felt  envious — for  a  moment; 
but  a  cup  of  China  tea  and  a  muffin  in  the  tea- 
room steadied  his  nerves.  The  train  from  Wey- 
mouth  was  almost  due.  He  paid  his  bill,  rose, 
and  descended  the  stairs.  The  train  was  sched- 
uled for  No.  5  platform.  He  bought  a  platform 
ticket,  ensconced  himself  behind  a  waiting  luggage- 
truck,  and,  lighting  a  cigarette,  gave  his  mind  up 
to  pondering. 

The  train  came  in,  the  engine  giving  its  cus- 
tomary spurt  as  it  made  its  way  alongside  the 
platform.  A  mass  of  humanity  was  disgorged 
from  its  interior.  Arthur  stared  hard,  became 
dizzy  from  staring,  made  one  or  two  blunders, 
and  suffered  intensely  during  the  space  of  three 
minutes. 

The  man  who  disturbed  him  from  his  medita- 
tions had  a  curiously  vivid  personality.  His  iron- 
gray  hair  was  cut  very  short,  and  his  clothes  had 
obviously  been  made  at  least  fifteen  years  ago, 
and  were  too  large  for  the  wearer.  They  seemed 
to  cover  the  ghost  of  a  man's  youth  as  well  as 
what  remained  of  the  man  himself.  He  was  very 
self-contained  and  had  a  rare  but  illuminating 


60  THREADS 

smile;  his  manner  was  quiet,  but  slightly  ironical; 
his  eyes  were  sympathetic,  but  you  could  tell  that 
he  wasted  no  time  in  self-pity.  He  was  a  little 
dazed,  and  conveyed  the  impression  of  a  man  re- 
cently awakened  from  a  long  dream. 

"I  think  you  must  be  my  son !  You  're  so  ab- 
surdly like  your  mother,"  said  the  stranger,  with 
one  of  his  illuminating  smiles. 

Arthur  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  After  all, 
tTiough  out  of  date  as  far  as  clothes  were  con- 
cerned, this  chap  was  quite  presentable,  and  his 
voice  was  everything  that  a  voice  should  be — 
but  so  rarely  is  in  London. 

"Very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Arthur.  "Your 
train  's  a  bit  late.  Have  you  any  luggage?" 

John  Osborne  Wynn  smiled.  Arthur  looked 
uncomfortable.  What  an  ass  he  was  making  of 
himself,  he  thought.  What  made  him  ask  such  a 
footling  question?  But  it  was  rather  decent  of 
his  father  not  to  mind.  His  father !  Good  Lord ! 
How  absurd  it  seemed ! 

"No;  I  didn't  bring  any  luggage.  I  thought 
I  'd  buy  some  new  clothes,"  said  Wynn,  his  eyes 
twinkling.  "Perhaps  you  would  be  kind  enough 
to  recommend  a  tailor?" 

"Rather!"  said  Arthur.  A  tailor  seemed  dis- 
tinctly necessary;  his  father's  clothes  were  a 
thousand  years  out  of  date — or  fifteen  years :  the 
same  thing. 


THREADS  6 1 

"We  'd  better  find  a  taxi,"  said  Arthur. 

"I  'm  in  your  hands,"  said  his  father.  "But — 
would  you  mind  telling  me :  what  is  a  taxi  ?" 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Arthur,  and  explained. 

It  appeared  that  Wynn  had  never  seen  a  taxi, 
or  a  motor-omnibus.  When  he  retired  from  the 
world  the  motor  industry  was  in  its  infancy.  If 
a  motor-omnibus  was  a  novelty,  what  would  an 
airplane  be?  or  a  Zeppelin? 

"He  didn't  say  much;  he  just  stared  into  the 
distance,"  Arthur  told  Olive,  later  on. 

"Into  the  past,  perhaps,"  said  Olive  gently. 

As  they  were  crossing  Westminster  Bridge, 
Arthur  realized  that  his  father  was  staring  at 
him.  Bad  form,  no  doubt;  but  somehow  it  failed 
to  make  him  uncomfortable,  it  was  so  impersonal. 
All  the  same,  it  would  be  just  as  well  to  avoid 
recognition  by  anyone  he  knew.  Arthur  leaned 
back  in  the  cab. 

Wynn  chuckled.  "I  'm  not  a  very  presentable 
parent,  am  I?"  he  said. 

St.  James's  Park,  with  its  lake  drained  dry  and 
its  quaintly  utilitarian  government  offices,  the 
bomb  protections  on  Westminster  Abbey,  and  the 
crowds  of  khaki-clad  pedestrians  seemed  to  fasci- 
nate Wynn.  He  just  sat  and  stared,  occasionally 
smiling  to  himself.  His  son  was  not  particularly 
communicative.  Ah,  well  I  Boys,  like  dogs,  must 
be  left  to  make  the  first  advances.  Probably 


62  THREADS 

Arthur  would  say  something  presently,  something 
that  would  act  as  the  latch-key  to  open  the  door 
that  at  the  moment  appeared  to  stand  between 
them. 

As  they  flew  round  the  corner  into  Manchester 
Square,  Arthur  looked  at  his  watch.  "We  shall 
catch  the  five-five  if  we  're  lucky,"  he  said.  "Will 
you  have  a  cigarette?" 

But  the  cigarette  tasted  rather  grassy  to  Wynn ; 
it  was  the  first  he  had  smoked  for  fifteen  years, 
and  his  palate  was  not  prepared  for  the  privilege. 
Would  his  home-coming  be  anything  like  his  first 
cigarette?  A  dream  of  delight  in  anticipation — 
a  little  disappointing  in  reality? 

He  shivered  a  little. 

"Would  you  like  the  window  up?"  inquired 
Arthur  politely. 

Wynn  shook  his  head.  Then  his  eye  caught 
the  exquisite  crease  in  his  son's  trousers,  and  his 
sense  of  humor  came  back  with  a  rush. 

"We  have  n't  given  ourselves  away,  have  we?" 
he  chuckled, 


CHAPTER  VI 

Pessimist  (shivering):  The  city  is  in  ashes,  the  people  all  fled  I 
Hostess:  Never  mind!    You  are  just  in  time  for  tea! 

Pro  Patria,  Act  4- 

"Ix  's  a  bit  trying  for  mother,"  said  Olive,  after 
Amelia  had  gone  to  her  room  to  take  an  aspirin 
tablet  and  lie  down  for  a  few  minutes. 

"It 's  a  bit  tryin'  for  us  all,"  muttered  Jimmy, 
very  depressed. 

Olive  looked  at  him.  Boys  were  so  selfish! 
They  looked  at  everything  merely  from  their  own 
point  of  view. 

They  wandered  down  the  drive  to  meet  the  ex- 
pected car.  "Great  snakes!  There  is  the  car!" 
cried  Jimmy;  "and  Arthur's  alone !" 

"Could  he  have  missed  him?"  said  Olive,  with 
that  disdain  for  grammatical  pedantry  so  char- 
acteristic of  the  educated  classes. 

"Good  Lord!"  exclaimed  Jimmy.  "It's  just 
like  Arthur  to  go  and  make  a  mess  of  everything. 
I  wish  the  mater  had  sent  me." 

The  car  came  sprinting  up  the  hill  and  pulled 
up  at  the  gates. 

"Take  her  up  to  the  garage,  Stevenson,"  said 
63 


64  THREADS 

Arthur  to  the  chauffeur.  "I  sha'n't  want  Jier 
again." 

Stevenson  touched  his  hat  and  obeyed  orders. 
He  just  missed  a  clump  of  rhododendrons  on  the 
curve,  avoided  a  kitchen-maid  by  a  dexterous  bit 
•of  steering,  and  brought  the  car  to  a  standstill 
before  the  garage.  The  distance  from  the  gates 
to  the  garage  was  two  hundred  and  twenty  yards : 
Stevenson  had  accomplished  it  in  ten  seconds. 

Arthur's  face  was  like  a  closed  book. 

"Well?"  inquired  Olive,  quivering  with  excite- 
ment. 

"Spit  it  out,  Arthur,"  drawled  Jimmy.  "Where 
whe?" 

"For  heaven's  sake,  give  me  a  chance  to 
breathe!  I'm  absolutely  fagged  out,"  said 
Arthur,  lighting  a  cigarette  with  amazing  cool- 
ness. 

"Have  you  lost  him?"  asked  Olive. 

Arthur  blew  out  the  match,  deposited  it  be- 
hind some  bushes,  and  started  to  walk  toward 
the  house.  "Don't  be  ridiculous,"  he  said.  "He's 
walking  up  the  hill;  he  said  he  thought  I  'd  better 
come  on  and  prepare  you  all."  He  blew  smoke, 
through  his  nose  and  felt  for  his  holder.  "I  Ve 
had  the  devil's  own  time,"  he  said. 

"Tell  us  all  about  it,"  insisted  Olive. 

"How  did  you  recognize  him?"  asked  Jimmy. 

Arthur  flushed.     "Hang  it  all!     I  looked  for 


THREADS  65 

an  elderly  man  with  cropped  hair,  but  there  were 
quite  a  number  of  them.  I  made  one  mistake : 
I  went  up  to  an  old  blighter  who  looked  a  bit 
lost,  and  said :  'Excuse  me !  Aren't  you  my 
father?'  But  he  got  quite  shirty  and  threatened 
to  give  me  in  charge." 

"I  expect  he  took  you  for  one  of  the  boys,'* 
said  Jimmy.  "Probably  thought  you  said  'How 's 
your  father?'  And  that  you  were  Harry  Tate  or 
George  Robey  or  one  of  those  brainy  fellows 
trying  to  pull  his  leg." 

"How  did  you  find  him  eventually?"  inquired 
Olive. 

"I  didn't,"  replied  Arthur;  "he  found  me. 
Came  up  to  me  and  said:  'I  think  you  must  be  my 
son,  you're  so  absurdly  like  your  mother!'  .  .  . 
Am  I  like  mother?"  he  inquired,  frowning. 

"No,"  said  Olive;  "but  you're  probably  like 
what  she  was  like  at  your  age." 

"What  did  you  do?  Have  a  drink?"  inquired 
Jimmy.  "I  think  you  might  have  stood  him  a 
small  bottle — under  the  circumstances." 

"Look  here,  you  two,"  said  Arthur,  as  the  trio 
drew  up  at  the  front  steps.  "What  are  we  going 
to  tell  people?  What  are  we  going  to  do  about 
our  name?" 

Olive  had  a  faculty  for  keeping  her  head  in  an 
emergency. 


66  THREADS 

"We  'd  better  not  do  anything  until  we  hear 
what  they  propose  to  do,"  she  asserted. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Arthur;  "but  I  must  tell  Chloe 
something." 

"I  wonder  what  people  will  say,"  mused  Olive. 

"Unless  we  're  jolly  careful  what  we  say,  and 
unless  we  all  say  the  same  thing,  it 's  bound  to 
cause  talk,"  said  Arthur* 

Jimmy  pondered.  "A  man  who  has  n't  been  a 
father  for  fifteen  years  can't  be  expected  to  know 
how  a  father  is  supposed  to  behave,"  he  said. 
"Suppose  he  does  n't  realize  we  can't  stand  being 
bossed  nowadays?" 

"You  're  only  thinking  of  yourselves.  Boys  are 
so  self-centered,"  cried  Olive. 

"Girls  are  merely  self-conscious,"  replied  the 
imperturbable  Jimmy. 

Arthur  had  one  of  those  flashes  of  insight  so 
rare  in  a  civil  servant. 

"It  must  be  a  bit  embarrassing  for  him"  he 
suggested. 

All  three  went  thoughtfully  into  the  hall,  meet- 
ing their  mother  descending  the  stairs. 

"Arthur,"  she  cried,  "Where  is  he  ?  Has  n't  he 
come?  Did  you  miss  him?  Oh,  Arthur!" 

A  look  of  pained  exasperation  swept  over 
Arthur's  face.  "Don't  worry,  mother,"  he  urged 
in  his  most  soothing  tones.  "He  '11  be  here  in  a 
minute.  He  said  he  would  rather  walk." 


THREADS  67 

"Why  did  you  let  him?"  complained  Amelia. 

Arthur  smiled.  "He  did  n't  look  the  kind  of 
father  who  would  take  contradiction  kindly,"  he 
said. 

Amelia  shivered.  Of  course  the  young  people 
could  not  be  expected  to  understand  what  she 
was  suffering.  Young  people  were  so  hard,  so 
rigid  in  their  ethics,  so — so  unimaginative.  Sen- 
timentality was  so  abhorrent  to  them;  even 
sentiment  had  to  be  disguised  in  slang.  Where 
an  early- Victorian  lover  would  press  his  hand 
to  his  heart,  kneel  at  his  lady's  feet,  and  whisper, 
"At  last,  my  love,  at  last!"  the  1917  hero  of 
romance  would  stroll  into  the  room  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and,  lighting  a  cigarette,  exclaim: 
"Hallo,  old  thing!  Cheerio!" 

The  Victorian  era  was  an  era  of  exaggeration 
and  insincerity,  and  it  produced  a  great  deal  of 
Bad  art  and  some  appalling  hypocrisies.  The 
simplicity  of  1917  was  looked  upon  with  sus- 
picion by  the  survivors  of  Victorianism.  It  was 
the  most  English  thing  that  Jhad  ever  happened 
to  England.  Those  responsible  for  the  Victorian 
era  had  endeavored  to  Germanize  England;  Ger- 
man music,  German  beer,  German  methods, 
German  culture,  German  pomposity  were  press- 
agented  to  an  alarming  extent  for  the  benefit  of  a 
people  sunk  (with  a  few  exceptions)  in  the  slough 
of  commercial  prosperity.  Amelia  had  been 


68  THREADS 

brought  up  among  people  who  considered  Handel 
the  last  word  in  music  and  Landseer  the  supreme 
painter;  she  had  been  inoculated  with  an  aggres- 
sive sentimentality,  and  it  had  taken  her  a  good 
many  years  to  throw  off  the  poison.  Even  now 
she  occasionally  had  a  relapse. 

She  shivered.  "I  can't  help  feeling  nervous," 
she  exclaimed.  "What  will  he  think  of  us,  I 
wonder?" 

Arthur,  fearing  a  scene  and  scenting  a  nerve- 
storm  preached  on  the  text  of  "You  don't  under- 
stand!" strolled  out  of  the  hall  and  down  the 
drive. 

"It  all  seems  so  unreal !"  cried  Amelia. 

Olive  and  Jimmy,  with  a  furtive  glance  at  each 
other,  a  kind  of  challenge,  each  daring  the  other 
to  desert,  threatening  terrible  consequences  did 
he  or  she  try  it  on,  followed  their  mother  into  the 
living-room.  Amelia  opened  an  album  of  pho- 
tographs that  reposed  in  a  drawer  in  her  desk. 
"That  was  taken  three  months  before  he — "  She 
pointed  to  a  picture.  "You  would  n't  recognize 
me  now — from  that?  Would  you?"  she  asked. 

Olive  looked  critically  at  the  photograph.  "I 
don't  know,  mother,"  she  said;  "I  don't  think 
you've  changed  so  much." 

"You  know  I  '.have;  you  must  know  it,"  pro- 
tested Amelia. 


THREADS  69 

"Dash  it  all!"  said  Jimmy;  "he'll  have 
cha/nged,  too." 

Amelia  put  the  album  back  into  the  drawer. 
There  was  a  sudden  silence  in  the  room  as  foot- 
steps were  heard  crossing  the  hall.  Then  the 
door  opened,  and  John  Osborne  Wynn  came  into 
the  room. 

Amelia  gasped.  "John!"  she  cried;  "I  didn't 
hear  you  come." 

They  kissed. 

Olive  and  Jimmy  wriggled  with  embarrassment. 
How  would  their  parents  behave?  Would  they 
play  the  game  as  the  game  was  understood  by 
the  youth  of  the  twentieth  century,  or  would  they 
weep  and.  make  a  scene  ?  They  looked  at  each 
other  in  relief.  Their  father  was  almost  mira- 
culously detached  and  calm;  his  calmness  was 
soothing  their  mother.  Evidently  he  was  intend- 
ing to  take  the  situation  in  a  sporting  spirit. 

Amelia  shivered.  Would  he  think  she  had  al- 
tered much?  Of  course  she  had  altered.  Fif- 
teen years — and  such  years.  Her  hair  had 
scarcely  any  gray  in  it,  and  her  figure — he  must 
notice  that  her  figure  was  that  of  a  girl.  Would 
he  think  she  had  lost  her  looks?  "But  you 
have  n't  seen  Olive — and  James !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Olive,"  repeated  John,  looking  round  and  ap- 
proving. He  approached  her  and  kissed  her 
cheek.  "You  were  only  a  baby,"  he  said.  "I 


70  THREADS 

did  n't  realize  how  much  you  would  have  grown. 
But  James,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  younger 
son  with  a  slightly  puzzled  look;  "I  don't  remem- 
ber James." 

"He  was  born  three  months  after  — "  said 
Amelia. 

John  looked  at  his  younger  son,  smiled,  and 
offered  his  hand.  James  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 
How  frightful  it  would  have  been  if  his  father 
had  wanted  to  kiss  him ! 

"How  do  you  do,  my  boy?"  said  John. 

"How  d' you  do!"  replied  James;  then  added 
with  a  gulp :  "Father." 

"Arthur  should  n't  have  left  you  to  walk  up 
alone,"  said  Amelia. 

"I  asked  him  to  leave  me,"  replied  John. 
"He  's  a  nice  boy,  Amelia;  but  he  makes  me  feel 
very  old — and  very  young." 

"Oh,  John!"  cried  Amelia;  "I  can  scarcely 
realize — " 

"Neither  can  I,  my  dear,"  said  John,  smiling. 

"The  tragedy  of  it!"  continued  Amelia. 
"Fifteen  years  taken  from  our  lives — " 

John  looked  at  her.  "You  lost  a  husband — 
a  lover;  you  find — a  comparative  stranger,"  he 
said.  "That  is  what  has  run  through  my  Ihead, 
night  after  night,  for  fifteen  years.  'If  we  meet 
again,  we  should  meet  almost  as  strangers/ 


THREADS  71 

I  'm  just  a  little  in  a  dream,"  he  added,  walking 
to  the  window  and  gazing  at  the  rose-garden. 

"So  am  I,  John,"  said  Amelia;  "I  was  just 
saying  so." 

"The  door  was  so  closely  shut  from  the  outside 
world.  Now  I  am  back  in  it,  and  everything  ap- 
pears to  be  going  on  as  usual.  It  has  been  a 
nightmare  with  me — that  you  might  be  in  want. 
But  this  house  spells  comfort — " 

John  broke  off  suddenly,  and  grasped  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  furniture  and  appointments  of 
the  room.  He  looked  at  Amelia  questioningly. 
The  size  of  the  house,  the  atmosphere  of  it,  the 
(what  would  be  described  by  house  agents  as) 
park-like  grounds — all  pointed  to  an  assured  in- 
come. He  seemed  puzzled. 

"Providence  has  been  very  helpful,  John,"  ex- 
plained Amelia.  "Uncle  Richard  was  killed  in  a 
motor  accident." 

John  smiled.  Uncle  Richard's  opinion  of  pro- 
vidence might  have  been  less  flattering. 

"He  left  us  a  comfortable  income  and  this 
house,"  continued  Amelia.  "Arthur  was  able  to 
go  to  Harrow  and  to  Cambridge,  and  then  into 
the  Foreign  Office.  That 's  why  he  is  n't  fight- 
ing. His  chief  said  he  was  indispensable." 

"He  soon  made  himself  indispensable,"  said 
John. 

"Olive  was  at  school  in  Paris  when  the  war 


72  THREADS 

broke  out.  She  did  n't  get  away  for  nearly  three 
weeks;  then  Arthur  got  perimssion  to  go  over 
and  fetch  her.  She  did  n't  want  to  come,"  ex- 
plained Amelia. 

"Of  course  I  did  n't,"  said  Olive.  "Paris  was 
much  more  interesting  than  London.  We  ex- 
pected a  siege." 

"Now  she  is  a  V.A.D.  at  such  a  delightful 
hospital  for  officers,"  continued  Amelia.  "She 
has  passed  all  her  Red  Cross  examinations,  but 
she  has  only  to  carry  in  the  trays.  She  's  on 
leave  for  a  week;  the  matron  thought  she  was 
looking  a  little  run  down.  James  is  at  Harrow. 
He  wants  to  join  the  R.F.C.  He  has  already 
flown  a  bumpety,  or  bumped  a  fly,  or  whatever 
the  technical  term  is,  and  says  he  could  stunt 
a  'bus  with  any  of  them ;  but,  thank  heaven !  he  's 
too  young." 

John  looked  puzzled.  What  language  was  his 
wife  speaking?  "It 's  all  Greek  to  me,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "But  perhaps  someone  will  interpret 
later  on.  But  the  name,"  he  said.  "Did  n't  peo- 
ple guess?" 

Here  was  the  first  fence  Amelia  had  dreaded. 
John  had  always  been  an  impossible  man  to 
deceive — even  in  little  things. 

"Uncle  Richard  insisted  on  our  dropping  the 
Wynn  and  calling  ourselves  Osborne.  I  thought 
you  would  n't  mind,"  she  added  hastily,  noticing 


THREADS  73 

his  raised  eyebrows,  "under  the  circumstances.  It 
seemed  like  the  hand  of  providence,"  she  con- 
cluded piously. 

The  hand  of  providence,  when  it  points  in  the 
required  direction,  is  a  priceless  asset  to  a  woman. 

"I  presume  providence  didn't  bank  on  my  re- 
turn?" suggested  John  drily.  "It's  fortunate  I 
had  no  luggage." 

Amelia  looked  at  him  appealingly.  "I  hope 
you  '11  respect  Uncle  Richard's  wishes,  John," 
she  pleaded.  "I  have  had  no  time  to  make  plans. 
I  only  told  the  children  your  story  today,"  she 
added  hastily. 

"It  almost  seems  a  pity — my  coming  back,"  said 
John.  "A  needless  embarrassment." 

"John!  That's  unkind,"  protested  Amelia. 
"You  must  make  allowances  for  us.  The  sudden- 
ness? The  shock!  .  .  .  Would  n't  you  like  some 
tea?"  she  inquired,  suddenly  changing  to  practica- 
lities. 

John  chuckled.  "No,  my  dear,  thank  you!"  he 
replied. 

"I  suppose  it 's  the  twentieth  century,"  said 
Amelia.  "One  does  n't  have  emotional  moments 
nowadays;  one  tries  to  be  normal,  though  the 
heavens  fall." 

"I  appreciate  that,"  replied  John  gently. 

Someone — an  American,  I  think — killed  senti- 
ment with  a  phrase  just  at  the  end  of  the  last 


74  THREADS 

century.  He  spoke  of  a  play  as  possessing  great 
heart  interest.  The  phrase  tickled  the  public; 
heart-interest  obviously  meant  sentiment,  so  senti- 
ment since  then  has  become  a  theme  for  laughter. 
Perhaps  the  man  who  first  used  that  phrase  failed 
to  realize  that  he  had  killed  a  rather  beautiful 
and  tender  thing.  Sentimentality  continued  to 
flourish  in  cheap  fiction  and  in  music-hall  songs 
and  drawing-room  ballads,  when  laid  on  with  a 
trowel;  but  sentiment,  that  illusive  and  rare  qual- 
ity which  provided  the  pass-key  to  dreams  that 
came  true,  from  that  moment  had  a  hard  row  to 
hoe,  and  has  become  as  rare  a  thing  as  self- 
sacrifice  without  advertisement. 

"Do  you  remember  clinging  to  me — and  crying 
as  though  your  .heart  would  break — when  I  was 
taken  away?"  said  John.  "I  haven't  seen  you 
since.  You  were  wise  not  to  come  to  my  trial." 

"I  could  n't,  John,"  replied  Amelia,  a  tinge  of 
reproach  in  her  voice.  "James  was  born  the  day 
you — '* 

The  habit  of  leaving  her  sentences  unfinished 
was  sometimes  very  effective;  but  it  was  an  en- 
tirely unconscious  search  after  style  on  her  part. 

"For  your  sake  I  was  glad  when  they  sentenced 
me,"  continued  John;  "and,  for  your  sake,  I  was 
sorry  when  they  changed  it  to  penal  servitude  for 
life.  It  was  n't  fair  to  you." 

"I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty  to  our  children," 


THREADS  75 

said  Amelia.  It  was  her  favorite  excuse,  her  cus- 
tomary challenge  to  criticism. 

"I  'm  sure  you  have  succeeded,"  replied  John 
chivalrously. 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Amelia  with  emotion,  "For 
that  I  have  sacrificed  everything." 

Olive  and  Jimmy  grew  hot  with  embarrass- 
ment. It  was  an  old  song  to  them.  It  was  the 
overture  or  the  finale  or  occasionally  the  coda 
to  every  scene  they  had  been  through.  Few  fami- 
lies steer  clear  of  those  familiar,  oft-recurring 
scenes  of  reproachful  reminiscences,  beginning 
with  an  unguarded  word  and  ending  with  a 
kiss  of  reconciliation  on  the  part  of  the  parent 
involved  and  a  sigh  of  relief  and  a  sincere  "Thank 
the  Lord"  on  the  part  of  the  children. 

John,  being  a  man,  showed  a  certain  lack  of 
tact.  "I  don't  quite  follow  you,"  he  said.  "Have 
you  had  to  sacrifice  much,  my  dear?" 

"I  have  sacrificed  my  own  feelings,  my  own 
wishes,"  replied  Amelia,  with  a  faint  echo  of  Vic- 
torian self-deception.  "Had  I  had  only  myself 
to  think  of,  I  should  have  lived  a  quiet,  secluded 
life,  seeing  no  one,  knowing  no  one ;  but,  for  our 
children's  sake,  I  had  to  hide  my  feelings  and  be- 
come sociable." 

"I  think  it 's  a  great  pity  mother  did  n't  tell 
us  the  truth;  we  could  have  helped  her,"  said 
Olive. 


76  THREADS 

"Yes ;  and  it  would  n't  have  come  as  such  an 
eye-opener,"  said  Jimmy. 

This  shifting  of  allegiance  was  too  much  for 
Amelia.  "I  did  it  for  your  sake,"  she  protested 
tearfully. 

John  took  up  the  cudgels  on  her  behalf.  "I 
understand,  my  dear,"  he  said,  quietly  and  sooth- 
ingly. "You  postponed  the  disclosure,  and  con- 
tinued to  postpone  it — until  it  became  impossible 
to  make.  It 's  our  national  habit  of  procrastina- 
tion, and  our  gift  for  believing  that  something 
will  occur  to  enable  us  to  muddle  through  a  thing 
without  disaster  in  spite  of  our  refusal  to  face 
facts.  It 's  very  English,  and  very  natural,  and 
intensely  perplexing  to  our  foreign  friends.  And 
I  don't  know  that  it  has  n't  even  disconcerted 
the  Germans.  We  must  be  an  exasperating  prob- 
lem to  the  logical  mind.  Tell  me,  dear,"  he 
added  a  little  anxiously;  "did  you  believe  me 
guilty?" 

"No,  John !    Never !"  said  Amelia. 

"I  'm  glad,"  said  John. 

"I  knew  that,  even  if  you  had  wanted  to  kill 
Frederick,  you  could  n't  have  done  so  by  shooting 
jhim,"  continued  Amelia.  "You  were  such  an  ab- 
normally bad  shot." 

John  chuckled  grimly.  "If  the  learned  judge 
had  had  your  logical  mind,  my  dear,  I  should 
have  had  a  fairer  trial,"  he  said. 


THREADS  77 

His  thoughts  flew  back  to  the  court  where  he 
had  been  tried  and  sentenced.  He  could  hear  the 
learned  judge's  clean-clipped  words  and  cultivated 
intonation  as  he  summed  up — against  the  pri- 
oner,  was  the  general  opinion.  The  judge  had 
made  the  jury  realize  that  the  prisoner  was  a 
monomaniac,  that  he  had  used  his  fear  of  Ger- 
many as  a  cloak  for  carrying  out  his  schemes  of 
personal  revenge ;  that,  instead  of  leaving  the  law 
to  deal  with  what  he  considered  were  his  sister's 
wrongs,  he  had  arrogantly  taken  the  matter  into 
his  own  hands,  and  then,  frightened  by  what  he 
had  done,  had  tried  to  evade  responsibility  by  in- 
venting a  ridiculous  string  of  absurdities  in  con- 
nection with  the  foreign  policy  of  a  friendly 
power. 

There  had  been  applause  in  court  from  a  num- 
ber of  interested  spectators  of  Teutonic  aspect, 
but  it  had  been  immediately  suppressed  by  the 
judge  with  a  threat  to  clear  the  court.  The 
learned  judge  had  enjoyed  the  applause,  but  he 
had  enjoyed  still  more  threatening  to  clear  the 
court.  Threatening  to  clear  the  court,  and  jokes 
of  a  peculiarly  humble  order  of  wit,  were  the 
specialties  of  Mr.  Justice  Winton.  He  it  was 
who,  when  asked  whether  he  had  ever  contributed 
to  Punch,  replied  that,  though  he  had  never  been 
so  useful  to  Punch,  Punch  had  on  many  occasions. 


78  THREADS 

been  useful  to  him.  Punch  was  flattered,  but  a 
little  nervous. 

"I  have  lived  under  the  terror  of  our  children 
discovering  the  truth  and  reproaching  me,"  said 
Amelia;  "of  our  friends  discovering  it  and  ostra- 
cizing us.  It  has  been  like  a  long  nightmare;  and 
now — " 

"Now  we  have  to  begin  all  over  again,"  mused 
John.  "It  is  very  difficult  to  realize  that  these 
are  my  children,"  he  added,  smiling;  "and  I'm 
quite  sure  it 's  equally  difficult  for  them  to  realize 
that  I  am  their  father."  He  looked  at  Olive  and 
then  at  Jimmy. 

"Is  n't  it?"  he  asked. 

Olive  contemplated  the  question,  and  answered 
it  calmly. 

"When  English  people  don't  understand  a 
thing,  they  think  it  either  funny  or  shocking. 
You  realize  that  if  you  go  to  the  theater,"  she  con- 
tinued reminiscently.  "Having  you  suddenly  in- 
troduced to  me  as  my  father  shocked  me  just  a 
little — at  first;  then  it  amused  me.  Then  I  sud- 
denly realized  what  it  must  have  meant  to  you — 
and  to  mother;  and  I  nearly  cried."  She  hesi- 
tated a  moment.  "One  doesn't  cry  much,  you 
know,  nowadays,"  she  explained.  "I  suppose  it 
was  different — when  mother  was  a  girl?" 

Amelia  looked  at  her  daughter.  She  thought 
the  question  was  slightly  in  bad  taste. 


THREADS  79 

"We  were  taught  to  look  upon  tears  as  a  femi- 
nine virtue,"  said  John. 

"We  gave  up  crying  and  took  to  saying 
'Damn!'"  said  Olive  calmly.  "It  means  about 
the  same  thing,  and  it 's  much  more  soothing.  I 
don't  know  how  Jimmy  feels  about  it,"  she  ad- 
ded, turning  to  the  young  Harrovian,  who  was 
busily  occupied  sketching  model  airplanes  on  the 
fly-leaf  of  a  volume  of  Mr.  Ezra  Pound's  "Lus- 
tra"; "but  I'm  very  glad  you've  come  back, 
father — for  our  sake  as  well  as  for  mother's." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  said  John,  a  little 
touched.  "And  how  does  Jimmy  feel  about  it?" 
he  inquired,  turning  to  his  younger  son. 

Jimmy  was  embarrassed  but  amazingly  direct, 
"if  you  're  decent  to  us,  sir,  we  '11  be  decent  to 
you,"  he  replied.  "I  think  that  covers  the  whole 
situation,"  he  added,  replacing  "Lustra"  on  a 
small  table  that  it  shared  with  a  bowl  of  roses  and 
a  leather-bound  volume  of  "Cranford."  Amelia's 
taste  in  literature  was  catholic. 

"I  think  it  does,"  agreed  John.  "Thank  you, 
Jimmy;  I  '11  do  my  best  to  be  decent  to  you." 

"Mother,"  said  Olive  nervously,  "I  think 
there  's  one  thing  father  ought  to  be  told." 

Amelia  looked  up  questioningly. 

"About  Seppy,  you  know,"  said  Olive. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Hostess:  You  are  envious  of  our  luxury. 
Reformer:  No;  only  of  your  self-complacence. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  i. 

"I  CONGRATULATE  you,  Amelia,"  said  John  a 
little  later  on,  after  Olive  and  Jimmy,  having 
manufactured  obvious  excuses  to  absent  them- 
selves,— Olive  because  she  realized  that  her 
father  and  mother  would  ,have  much  to  say  to 
each  other,  and  Jimmy  because  the  situation  was 
becoming  a  little  too  intimately  embarrassing, — 
had  left  them  alone.  "They  are  charming  young 
people — a  great  improvement  on  our  generation 
of  children."  Then  a  slightly  puzzled  look  came 
over  his  face.  "But  who — or  what  in  the  world  is 
Seppy?"  he  inquired.  "Not,  I  trust,  a  toy  York- 
shire? They  were  very  much  in  fashion  when  I 
retired." 

Amelia  became  tearful.     "Oh,  John!"  she  ex- 
claimed.    "It  sounds  so  dreadful." 

"I  love  dogs,"  said  John;  "but  I  prefer  them 
big  and  slapable." 

"He — he  is  n't  a  dog,"  said  Amelia. 
80 


THREADS  8 1 

"Oh!"  murmured  John;  "I  see.  What  is  he? 
A  tame  cat?" 

A  creative  artist  can  make  an  admirable  hus- 
band and  father;  but  he  is,  as  a  rule,  so  alarm- 
ingly quick  in  the  uptake  that  it  becomes  a  trifle 
embarrassing. 

"No,  John,"  replied  Amelia  self-consciously. 
"He  is  a  colonel.  At  the  War  Office.  A  friend 
• — a  very  great  friend — who  has  been  kind  to  me 
and  to  the  children." 

"And  what  is  it  about  him  that  our  children 
think  I  ought  to  know?"  inquired  John,  with  a 
smile. 

Amelia  hesitated.  "He — he  comes  here  a  good 
deal,"  she  said. 

The  twinkle  in  John's  eyes  had  always  been 
exasperating  to  Amelia  when  she  wanted  to  ex- 
plain things  in  her  own  way.  "He  knows  all  about 
rates  and  taxes,  and  how  to  bud  roses,  and — " 
She  hesitated  again. 

"I  understand,"  said  John;  "he  can  make  him- 
self generally  useful?" 

"One  is  so  lost  without  a  man's  advice — in 
some  things,"  said  Amelia. 

John  chuckled  and  rubbed  his  chin  reflectively. 
"Does  he  know  about  me?"  he  inquired. 

"He  thinks  I  'm  a  widow,"  said  Amelia,  playing 
with  her  handkerchief. 

John  had  a  curious  little  mannerism  that  he 


82  THREADS 

usually  indulged  in  when  not  quite  sure  of  his 
subject.  He  may  have  caught  it  from  Sir  John 
Hare — an  actor  he  greatly  admired — or  it  may 
have  been  instinctive.  It  was  to  rub  himself  two 
or  three  times  very  quickly  behind  the  right  ear 
with  the  back  of  the  second  finger  of  his  right 
hand.  Amelia  remembered  the  gesture;  it  seemed 
to  bring  the  past  more  intimately  into  perspec- 
tive. "Does  he — hope?"  asked  John. 

"I  have  refused  him  seventeen  times,"  replied 
Amelia.  "I  said  that  nothing  could  make  me 
forget  you" 

"That  was  a  terrible  challenge  to  a  man's  van- 
ity," said  John. 

"Of  course  I  told  him  how  much  I  appreciated 
his  loyalty  and  devotion,"  continued  Amelia. 

<fln  the  event  of  the  strenuous  life  at  Port- 
land proving  too  much  for  my  constitution,  would 
his  loyalty  and  devotion  have  been  rewarded?" 

"Will  you  be  hurt  if  I  speak  quite  frankly?" 
said  Amelia  very  simply. 

"My  dear,  I  shall  be  hurt  if  you  don't,"  replied 
John. 

Amelia  had  not  reached  her  thirtieth  birthday 
when  John  had  been  taken  from  her,  their  com- 
panionship broken  up,  their  lives  apparently 
ruined.  She  had  enjoyed  a  peculiarly  happy 
married  life  until  then.  Everything  had  gone 
well  with  them,  the  horizon  had  shown  no  dark 


THREADS  83 

clouds.  The  only  thing  that  had  troubled  Ame- 
lia at  all,  and  that  was  in  itself  a  very  minor 
trouble,  was  the  fact  that  John  had  invariably 
jheld  views  and  opinions  contrary  to  those  of  her 
friends  and  of  her  upbringing.  When  the  crash 
came,  she  was  dazed;  she  moved  about  in  a 
dream.  Jimmy  was  born  just  after  the  trial. 
Amelia  had  at  first  hoped  that  she  would  not 
recover,  then  she  had  realized  that  she  must — 
for  the  children's  sake.  She  knew  she  would 
never  see  John  again,  and  after  a  while  she  real- 
ized that  it  was  better  so.  She  tried  to  think  of 
herself  as  a  widow,  as  one  who,  having  been 
shown  paradise  for  a  moment,  now  had  the  vision 
sharply  withdrawn.  For  the  children's  sake  she 
knew  she  must  not  brood  too  much,  that  she  must 
try  to  look  forward  without  fear.  Her  heart  was 
buried  under  the  stone  gateway  at  Portland;  but 
she  was  still  a  woman,  with  youth  to  help  her,  and 
people  had  thought  her  pretty  and  attractive.  She 
had  always  had  an  unconscious  ability  to  attract 
men.  She  liked  men;  she  liked  them  as  friends, 
she  bore  with  them  as  suitors;  a  moderately  pla- 
tonic  flirtation  was  her  natural  medium  for  ex- 
pressing herself.  There  was  no  harm  in  it;  and 
if  men  took  her  kindness  and  responsiveness  too 
seriously,  they  were  to  blame,  not  she.  Admira- 
tion kept  a  woman  young,  and  she  hated  the  idea 
of  growing  old.  It  was  difficult  for  a  woman  to 


«4  THREADS 

be  obliged  to  bring  up  and  educate  two  boys  and 
a  girl  without  a  man  to  advise  and  to  help  her. 
She  was  not  the  kind  of  woman  who  could  stand 
alone.  She  had  always  been  used  to  leaning  on 
John.  His  shoulder  had  always  been  there,  wait- 
ing to  be  leaned  on.  She  had  found  it  impossible 
to  make  friends  with  women;  women  were  af- 
flicted with  curiosity,  they  gossiped;  they  were  un- 
certain, revengeful  when  snubbed;  they  would 
sacrifice  truth  and  honor  for  a  mouthful  of  gossip. 
She  did  n't  trust  women,  she  could  n't.  Besides, 
women  bored  her.  If  she  could  not  have  her  hus- 
band, then  she  wanted  to  have  a  man  dropping  in 
regularly,  someone  she  could  consult  about  things 
she  herself  did  not  understand. 

"You  don't  misunderstand  me,  John?"  she 
cried  a  little  piteously,  after  explaining  her  point 
of  view  to  her  husband. 

"No,  my  dear,"  replied  John  quietly.  "And 
did  Seppy  fill  the  bill?"  he  inquired,  a  smile  twitch- 
ing at  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

Seppy  had  been  very  useful,  she  explained.  He 
had  been  the  first  man  who  had  been  able  to  make 
clear  to  her  the  inner  meaning  of  official  phrase- 
ology. Rates  and  taxes  were  terrifying  things  to 
a  woman,  and  she  had  hated  to  bother  her  law- 
yers too  often.  She  had  always  possessed  that 
peculiar  kind  of  economical  mind  that  would 
rather  pay  ten  pounds  to  someone  who  was  not 


THREADS  85 

entitled  to  it  than  a  guinea  to  a  solicitor  to  save 
her  from  being  mulcted  of  nearly  nine  times  the 
amount.  Income  tax  returns  were  enough  to  puz- 
zle even  the  logical  brain  of  a  man.  She  had 
grown  quite  fond  of  Seppy;  he  had  become  to  her 
a  kind  of  animated  inquire-within-upon-every- 
thing.  She  did  n't  love  him;  she  could  never  love 
anyone  again.  "It 's  just  as  well,  John,  is  n't  it?" 
she  added,  smiling — "now  that  you  have  come 
home." 

"It  has  saved  some  unnecessary  complications," 
said  John. 

"He  is  very  keen  on  the  question  of  making 
divorce  easier  for  women,"  continued  Amelia. 
John  smiled;  he  had  known  one  or  two  Seppies 
with  that  idea.  "He  is  quite  sincere;  he  sits  on 
royal  commissions  and  things,"  said  Amelia. 

John  chuckled  softly.  Most  of  the  Seppies  he 
had  known  had  usually  been  sat  upon  by  the  hus- 
bands of  the  women  who  wanted  divorce  to  be 
made  easier. 

"He  thinks  that  if  a  husband — or  a  wife — is 
sent  to  prison  for  life,  or  even  for  a  longer  period 
than  seven  years,  a  divorce  should  be  automatic, 
for  the  sake  of  the  children,"  explained  Amelia. 

"And  for  the  sake  of  the  birth-rate  ?  I  know," 
agreed  John.  "I  had  those  ideas  myself — before 
the  question  touched  me  personally.  Now,"  he 


86  THREADS 

added  rather  grimly,  "now  I  see  the  other  side  of 
it." 

"Ours  is  an  unusual  case,"  said  Amelia  quietly. 

"Suppose  you  had  been  able  to  divorce  me — 
automatically — and  that  you  had  married  again," 
inquired  John,  "what  would  have  happened?" 

"I  don't  know,  John,"  replied  Amelia. 

"What  do  our  children  think  of  the  situation?" 
he  asked. 

"They  did  n't  know  you  were  alive,  so  they  ac- 
cepted Seppy  as  a  friend  of  the  house,"  she  re- 
plied. 

Modern  children  probably  accepted  a  great 
many  things,  thought  John.  Possibly  they  had 
a  keener  sense  of  humor  than  the  children  of  his 
generation,  or  else  they  took  things  more  for 
granted.  Perhaps  it  had  become  a  philosophical 
age,  or  an  age  where  people  did  n't  bother  as  they 
used  to  about  unnecessary  or  inevitable  trifles. 

"They  were  very  firm  with  him,"  said  Amelia, 
"when  they  noticed  he  was  getting  at  all  senti- 
mental." 

John's  smile  was  a  little  grim.  "I  shall  be  very 
firm  with  him — if  I  notice  anything  of  the  kind," 
he  remarked. 

Amelia  looked  rather  perplexed.  "I  hope  you 
will  be  nice  to  him,  John,"  she  protested*  "He 
has  been  very  kind  to  me." 

"My  dear,"  said  her  husband,  "as  far  as  I  am 


THREADS  87 

concerned,  there  shall  always  be  a  saucer  of  milk 
in  the  corner  when  he  wants  it." 

"John!  You  don't  think  me  heartless," 
pleaded  Amelia  a  little  breathlessly. 

"My  dear !  I  am  not  a  believer  in  miracles," 
he  answered  gently. 

"We  can't  expect  to  take  up  the  old  life  just 
exactly  where  we  left  it  off — fifteen  years  ago," 
said  Amelia  nervously.  "Can  we?" 

"No,"  said  John  thoughtfully.  "At  the  mo- 
ment I  feel  rather  like  a  privileged  visitor."  He 
was  absorbing  the  details  of  the  room,  and  uncon- 
sciously contrasting  the  atmosphere  with  that  of 
his  vacated  cell  at  Portland. 

"That  hurts  a  little,"  said  Amelia,  knowing  it 
was  true. 

John  had  suddenly  grasped  the  significance  of 
his  home-coming.  How  could  he  expect  things  to 
be  just  as  they  had  been?  He  was  a  stranger — 
almost.  He  had  lived  solitary  and  on  his  dearest 
memories;  it  was  all  the  life-nourishment  he  had 
had  to  support  his  hopes  and  beliefs.  Amelia  had 
not  been  sentenced  to  a  limited  horizon;  life  with 
her  had  gone  on  very  much  as  before.  She  had 
not  been  stripped  bare  of  everything  that  made 
life  worth  while.  And  now,  by  a  miracle,  he  had 
come  back  to  her.  But  had  he  come  back  to  her? 
or  was  he  merely  what  he  had  described  himself 
as — in  an  unguarded  moment — a  privileged  visi- 


88  THREADS 

tor?  What  right  had  he  to  expect  anything  else? 
Loneliness  of  soul  inspires  constancy;  a  diversity 
of  interests  aids  forgetfulness. 

His  life  had  been  cut  short  suddenly  at  the  age 
of  thirty-five;  now,  at  fifty,  he  was  taking  it  up 
again  at  the  breaking-off  point.  For  fifteen  years 
he  had  been  as  a  man  dead;  he  had  not  really  been 
alive  at  all,  merely  a  man  sleep-walking.  During 
those  fifteen  years  Amelia  had  lived  in  the  world, 
of  the  world,  for  the  world's  verdict.  It  was 
utterly  impossible  for  a  woman  under  such  condi- 
tions to  concentrate  entirely  on  the  tragedy  of  her 
life.  She  had  had  other  interests;  she  had  had 
duties,  responsibilities.  She  had  not  been  com- 
pelled to  endure  mental  stagnation.  He  must  face 
facts ;  he  must  have  patience.  He  could  not  expect 
passionate  love,  the  welcome  of  a  bride.  He  must 
be  content  with  affection;  and  even  affection  had 
to  be  won.  He  must  begin  all  over  again.  He 
must  not  expect  anything  as  a  right;  he  would 
not  be  content  with  the  kind  of  affection  that  is 
given  unconsciously  to  household  companions.  He 
would  be  a  visitor — a  privileged  visitor — until  all 
doors  were  thrown  open  to  him,  all  mental  reser- 
vations printed  in  letters  he  could  read. 

He  condensed  these  musings  into  a  few  simple 
words — it  was  necessary  to  put  Amelia  at  her 
ease.  "Thank  you,  John,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice ; 
"you  were  always  chivalrous." 


THREADS  89 

»4 

"I  have  lived  so  much  in  myself,  I  [have  had 
so  little  to  distract  my  thoughts,  that  the  fifteen 
years  have  made  no  real  hiatus  in  my  life  with 
you,"  he  continued.  "I  couldn't  expect — I 
should  n't  expect  you  to  have  the  same  feeling. 
You  have,  very  bravely,  very  rightly,  taken  hold 
of  life  again,  and  have  had  many  interests;  I  have 
had  none — outside  of  you  and  the  children.  And 
now  that  I  come  bursting  in  like  a  bomb-shell,  it 's 
naturally  a  little  difficult  for  you.  When  one  is 
much  alone,  one  dreams  of  everything  coming 
right;  and  if  a  dream  by  chance  comes  true  it 
seems  as  though  it  were  in  the  natural  order  of 
things.  You,  on  the  other  hand,  have  switched 
off  to  another  line,  and  it 's  a  long  way  back  to 
the  junction.  I  have  been  side-tracked;  you  have 
proceeded  on  your  journey.  If  you  can't  get 
back,  if  the  line  is  too  crowded  with  other  inter- 
ests, other  memories,  it  is  not  your  fault.  I  have 
learned  to  be  patient,  and  to  realize  the  delici- 
ously  ironical  humor  of  the  magician  we  call  fate, 
the  controller  of  destinies,"  he  concluded  a  trifle 
grimly. 

Amelia  looked  at  him  a  little  perturbed.  "I 
hope,  John,  that  does  n't  mean  you  have  given  up 
going  to  church?"  she  exclaimed.  "I  don't  think 
providence  would  like  being  laughed  at." 

Providence,  according  to  Amelia's  mid-Victo- 
rian creed,  spent  most  of  its  time  listening  behind 


90  THREADS 

the  door,  with  a  big  stick  in  its  hand,  ready  to 
pounce  out  and  destroy  anyone  of  a  rebellious 
frame  of  mind.  John  had  never  been  orthodox. 

Amelia  moved  to  the  window;  she  felt  she 
would  like  to  retire  to  bed,  with  some  tea  and 
toast  and  ten  grains  of  aspirin,  and  to  hide  her- 
self from  the  ironical  exhibition  that  fate,  or  pro- 
vidence, was  providing  for  her  entertainment.  To- 
morrow she  would  be  ready  to  face  life  under 
these  new  and,  at  present,  strange  conditions. 

She  felt  that  ,her  self-control  was  giving  way. 
Probably  she  was  a  coward;  but  life  had  been 
very  difficult  for  her,  and  she  suddenly  realized 
an  intense  desire  to  let  go  temporarily. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  such  a  thing  in  the  house 
as  a  bottle  of  French  vermouth,"  said  John  sud- 
denly. "I  have  n't  had  a  drink  for  fifteen  years." 

Amelia's  hospitable  instincts  were  promptly 
aroused.  She  was  about  to  ring  the  bell;  then 
she  hesitated  and  looked  at  her  husband  with 
some  perplexity. 

"John!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  are  we  to  tell 
the  servants?" 

John  smiled.  It  was  another  of  life's  little 
ironies  that  he  had  forgotten.  "Need  we  tell 
them  anything?"  he  asked. 

Amelia  looked  at  him  reproachfully.  "I 
can't  possibly  go  to  cook  and  say:  'My  husband 
has  returned  unexpectedly!'  She  thinks  I  am  a 


THREADS  9 1 

widow.  I  can't  possibly  say  to  her:  'I  am  not 
Mrs.  Osborne;  I  am  Mrs.  Wynn.'  She  would 
give  notice  on  the  spot.  Servants  are  so  suspici- 
ous and  always  imagine  the  worst,"  she  con- 
cluded fretfully. 

John  pondered.  "Is  there  still  a  servant  prob- 
lem?" he  inquired. 

"There  always  has  been  one;  there  always  will 
be  one,"  said  Amelia. 

The  average  woman,  looking  back  on  her  do- 
mestic life,  sees  a  long  vista  of  incompetent,  im- 
pertinent, stupid,  greedy,  careless  obstinate,  prej- 
udiced, here-to-day-and-gone-to-morrow  females 
whose  virtues  were  magnified  by  contrast  with  the 
others  and  whose  shortcomings  had  become  a  sub- 
ject for  conversation  with  other  unfortunate 
householders.  It  is  largely  the  result  of  the  Eng- 
lish passion  for  unskilled  labor  and  partly  owing 
to  the  fact  that  the  demand  exceeds  the  supply. 
The  average  servant  is  a  snob  and  a  sycophant; 
but  she  is  also  a  human  being,  and  would  per- 
haps appreciate  more  routine  and  less  muddle  pro- 
vided she  could  have  a  few  hours  a  day  for  rest 
and  recreation.  There  is  more  neurasthenia  due 
to  the  servant  problem  than  the  average  doctor 
suspects. 

"There  were  no  discordant  notes  of  domesticity 
at  Portland,"  said  John.  "We  did  our  own  work, 
we  lived  the  simple  life,  and  I  am  bound  to  admit 


92  THREADS 

that  very  few  of  us  suffered  from  nervous  break- 
downs." 

"All  the  best  servants  are  getting  positions  in 
hospitals  or  munition  works,"  said  Amelia.  "They 
are  dreadfully  difficult  to  keep." 

"I  'm  afraid  I  shall  be  difficult  to  disguise — if 
the  newspapers  get  hold  of  my  story,"  said  John. 

Amelia  explained  that  the  newspapers  were  too 
busily  engaged  in  abusing  one  another  for  being 
either  too  optimistic  or  too  pessimistic  to  take 
much  notice  of  an  error  of  justice  committed  fif- 
teen years  ago.  Besides,  there  was  no  party  capi- 
tal to  be  made  out  of  it.  Even  the  war  was  dis- 
cussed from  the  party  point  of  view.  Mr.  Asquith 
had  announced  that  the  fall  of  his  government 
would  be  a  national  calamity,  but  the  country  had 
chanced  the  calamity  in  a  sporting  spirit. 

"I  think  that  we  had  better  say  that  you  were 
shipwrecked  on  a  desert  island,"  said  Amelia. 
She  feared  providence,  but  feared  her  cook  even 
more. 

"I  expect  the  kitchen  is  humming  with  theories. 
If  I  were  you,  my  dear,  I  should  explain  nothing," 
suggested  John. 

Amelia  sighed  and  rang  the  bell.  "You  don't 
know  the  modern  servant,"  she  protested. 

John  had  realized  that  his  home-coming  might 
possibly  produce  some  slight  inconveniences,  even 
a  certain  amount  of  embarrassment;  but  he  had 


THREADS  93 

failed  to  anticipate  the  necessity  of  his  being  ex- 
plained to  the  servants.  But  in  this  wonderful 
scheme  of  civiliaztion  that  we  have  built  up  for 
ourselves,  a  scheme  that  makes  us  dependent  upon 
other  people  for  all  the  little  graces  and  comforts 
of  life,  we  no  sooner  surmount  one  obstacle  than 
another,  equally  exasperating,  confronts  us.  The 
caveman  was  not  compelled  to  consider  the  preju- 
dices of  his  domestic  staff;  he  roared  defiance  to 
the  world,  and  went  on  his  way  rejoicing,  club- 
bing into  insensibility  those  who  could  not  or 
would  not  agree  with  him.  It  is  true  that  he  was 
unable  to  indulge  in  gramophones,  Persian  rugs, 
afternoon  tea,  hot  and  cold  running  water,  and 
the  other  necessities  of  what  certain  cynics  call 
an  effeminate  age;  that  he  possessed  no  changes 
of  raiment,  and  that  he  had  few  opportunities  to 
impress  his  neighbors  by  a  tactfully  suggested 
display  of  luxuries.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
could  call  his  soul  his  own;  he  was  not  compelled 
to  live  in  terror  of  what  the  servants  would  say, 
and  of  whether  the  second  housemaid  would  ob- 
ject to  Danish  butter  and  be  content  with  eggless 
bacon  for  breakfast  at  a  time  when  eggs  were 
scarce ;  he  was  not  dependent  upon  one  person  to 
bring  him  his  early  tea,  another  to  shave  him  and 
to  brush  his  clothes,  another  to  bring  him  his  let- 
ters and  newspapers,  still  another  to  dig  his  gar- 
den, and  a  tribe  of  others  who  had  to  be  fed, 


94  THREADS 

housed,  and  paid  in  order  to  exhibit  him  to  the 
world  as  what  is  called  "a  man  of  means." 

The  war  showed  us  not  so  much  the  trials  and 
troubles  of  the  poor,  for  the  genuine  poor  have 
all  the  rich  people's  horror  of  giving  themselves 
away,  but  the  trials  and  troubles  of  the  rich;  one 
reads  of  poor  helpless  rich  people,  two  in  family, 
advertising  for  servants,  prepared  to  pay  any 
wages  in  reason,  offering  inducements  ("Twelve 
servants  kept.  Liberal  outings")  to  those  who 
will  answer  the  appeal,  absolutely  frantic  with 
fear  lest  their  ways  of  life  should  be  upset,  lest 
they  should  be  compelled  to  live  with  only  nine 
servants  to  brush  them  and  wash  them  and  keep 
them  decent,  when  they  had  always  lived  with  ten. 
Such  trials  are  a  tragedy,  though  self-imposed. 
Picture  "Bachelor,  twelve  servants  kept"  having 
to  get  up  without  being  called,  to  fry  his  own 
rasher,  make  his  own  coffee,  polish  his  own  boots, 
groom  his  own  horses,  plant  his  own  potatoes,  find 
his  own  clean  socks,  and  make  his  way  through 
the  long  vista  of  days  unshepherded  by  his  faith- 
ful retinue.  He  would  be  lost,  he  would  fall  by 
the  wayside  in  despair.  He  has  grown  so  accus- 
tomed to  being  looked  after  by  other  people  that 
he  is  totally  incompetent  to  look  after  himself. 
And  that  is  the  kind  of  artificial  civilization  we 
have  striven  to  produce,  and,  having  produced 
and  brought  to  a  fine  art,  we  are  prouder  of  than 


THREADS  95 

anything  else.  Such  an  existence  is  the  ideal  for 
which  all  Anglo-Saxons  long,  which  they  hope  to 
achieve,  and,  having  once  achieved,  will  never  let 
go.  Music,  literature,  painting,  science — the 
creative  arts — are  only  a  means  to  an  end;  they 
mean  nothing  to  the  average  Englishman.  The 
average  Englishman  likes  to  swank  about  Shakes- 
peare, whose  work  he  seldom  reads,  but  he  has 
a  whole-hearted  reverence  for  the  Duke  of  West- 
minster. 

To  the  average  Englishman,  a  life  of  luxurious 
ease  and  dependence  on  a  staff  of  sycophantic 
servants  is  the  only  life  that  is  really  worth  while. 
The  man  who  can  do  anything  is  not  wanted;  the 
man  who  can  do  one  thing  or  be  one  thing,  if  it 
is  only  being  rich,  and  do  it  or  be  it  whole- 
heartedly, will  win  the  respect  and  admiration  of 
the  nation.  If  he  makes  epigrams,  he  must  go 
on  making  epigrams ;  if  he  is  a  philanthropist,  he 
must  continue  to  give;  if  he  is  a  specially  promi- 
nent unit  of  Society  with  a  big  "S,"  he  must  al- 
ways dress  the  part;  if  he  is  a  politician,  he  must 
persevere  to  uphold  the  political  banner  on  which 
is  engraved  in  letters  of  gold,  "We  are  hard  to 
move."  In  fact,  an  Englishman  must  choose  his 
part  (or  accept  it)  and  continue  to  play  it  for 
all  it  is  worth;  he  must  not  indulge  in  new  read- 
ings or  study  to  bring  out  subtle  meanings;  if 
the  stage  directions  tell  him  to  sit  on  a  top-hat, 


96  THREADS 

,he  must  sit  on  it  "good  and  hard";  if  they  pro- 
vide for  "tears  in  his  voice,"  the  said  tears  must 
be  of  the  extra  large  size;  if  they  tell  him  to 
retire  up  stage  and  watch  the  leading  man,  he 
must  watch  that  gentleman  for  the  rest  of  his 
life  and  gain  kudos  from  the  press  for  his  admir- 
able watching  manner;  if  they  tell  ihim  to  be 
funny,  he  must  be  very  funny  indeed.  England 
will  forgive  a  man  anything  except  irreverence 
for  tradition,  lack  of  the  sporting  instinct,  or  a 
change  of  opinion. 

Such  thoughts  were  crowding  through  John's 
brain  as  he  sipped  his  glass  of  French  vermouth 
and  gazed  out  of  the  window.  Suddenly  he  be- 
came aware  of  the  parlor-maid.  "Has  your  bag 
come,  sir?"  she  asked. 

John  looked  up  with  a  delightful  expression  of 
concern  on  his  face.  "I  'm  afraid  my  bag  has 
gone  astray;  I  shall  be  obliged  to  borrow  from 
Mr.  Arthur." 

"The  oak  room,  Parsons,"  said  Amelia.  "It 
has  a  bath-room  attached,"  she  added,  after  Par- 
sons had  closed  the  door. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear!"  replied  John  a  little 
grimly.  "I  am  sure  I  shall  be  very  comfortable." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Reformer  (bewildered):  The  noise  is  deafening.     I  cannot  think. 
Gilded  Youth:  We  don't  want  to  think;  it  would ft>e  the  death  of  us. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  i. 

JOHN  passed  a  restless  night  in  the  luxurious  bed 
belonging  to  the  oak  room  that  had  a  bath-room 
attached.  He  was  too  comfortable  to  sleep. 
After  fifteen  years  of  a  plank  bed,  a  spring  mat- 
tress was  a  curious  change.  You  can  get  accus- 
tomed to  almost  anything  if  you  persevere,  but 
your  physical  parts  cry  out  at  having  to  adjust 
themselves  to  new  positions.  There  is  a  grim 
streak  of  humor  in  life. 

John  tried  to  control  his  thoughts,  but  even- 
tually gave  up  in  despair.  His  brain  was 
abnormally  active,  and  his  memory-cells  were  dis- 
charging pictures  like  a  cinematograph.  His  trial, 
his  journey  to  Portland,  his  hideously  monoton- 
ous life  there,  came  back  to  him  in  crude  pictures. 
He  turned  on  the  electric  light  at  the  head  of 
his  bed  and  tried  to  read,  but  the  words  danced 
before  his  eyes.  He  put  out  the  light  and  drew 
the  curtains,  allowing  the  moonlight  to  flood  the 
room.  He  wondered  whether  Amelia  was  awake 
too,  and,  if  so,  of  what  she  was  thinking. 

97 


98  THREADS 

Toward  four  o'clock  he  fell  asleep  and  dreamed 
that  he  was  back  in  prison. 

When  he  awoke  the  country  was  bathed  in 
sunshine ;  it  was  eight  o'clock,  and  in  the  distance 
a  church  bell  was  ringing.  Parsons  entered  with 
a  cup  of  China  tea,  and  took  away  his  clothes  to 
be  brushed.  After  all,  life  could  be  extremely 
comfortable  in  a  house  staffed  with  competent 
servants. 

A  warm  bath  was  a  luxury  he  had  not  enjoyed 
for  fifteen  years;  he  reveled  in  it.  Then  he  re- 
membered that  he  had  no  razor.  Should  he  ring? 
Would  it  annoy  Amelia  if  he  did?  Had  any 
member  of  his  family  sufficient  imagination  to 
realize  his  toilet  deficiencies?  Parsons  knocked 
at  the  door  of  his  bedroom  and  entered  with  a 
fitted  suit-case  containing  razors,  brushes,  and 
other  articles  of  comfort.  John  felt  he  would 
like  to  give  Parsons  a  sovereign,  but  unfortunately 
he  had  no  money — another  troublesome  affair 
that  would  have  to  be  arranged. 

He  shaved,  dressed,  and  went  downstairs  and 
out  into  the  garden.  A  Sabbath  stillness  was  the 
dominant  note.  A  sudden  desire  for  food  drew 
him  to  the  dining-room.  There  were  copper  hot- 
water  dishes  on  the  sideboard;  in  them  a  choice 
selection  of  breakfast  dainties.  He  helped  him- 
self to  bacon  and  eggs,  and  Parsons  brought  in 
a  pot  of  coffee,  a  jug  of  hot  milk,  and  some  fresh 


THREADS  99 

toast.  "Breakfast  is  a  movable  feast  on  Sun- 
days, sir,"  she  observed,  glancing  round  to  see 
that  all  was  in  order.  She  left  the  room,  return- 
ing a  moment  later  with  the  Observer,  the 
Referee,  and  that  curious  picture  paper  contain- 
ing a  column  of  gossip  written  by  the  second  foot- 
man at  a  well-known  house  in  Park  Lane, 
chronicling  the  observations  made  to  him  by  vari- 
ous prominent  people,  including  the  stars  of  the 
stage.  Its  name  is  very  difficult  to  remember,  but 
the  paper  itself  is  widely  read  by  the  middle 
classes,  and  freely  quoted  from. 

John  finished  his  breakfast  without  interrup- 
tion, and  then  settled  himself  in  a  luxurious  arm- 
chair in  the  living-room,  with  the  Sunday  papers 
and  those  that  he  could  find  of  the  previous  day's 
issue.  On  a  small  table  at  his  side  was  a  silver 
box  containing  cigarettes,  together  with  a  match- 
stand  and  an  ash-tray.  He  lighted  a  cigarette, 
and  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief;  he  could  faintly 
taste  the  tobacco.  Outside  the  birds  were  singing 
and  the  sun  was  shining;  indoors  everything  was 
deliciously  quiet  and  peaceful. 

He  took  up  the  papers  and  realized  that  his 
country  was  at  war. 

He  read  steadily  through  most  of  them,  includ- 
ing the  leading  articles.  Much  of  what  he  read 
was  Greek  to  him — new  phrases,  new  slang,  new 
names  continued  to  intrude.  Things  were  evi- 


ioo  THREADS 

dently  not  going  too  well  with  the  nation.  Food 
was  snort  (he  remembered  his  breakfast  with 
gratitude),  the  cost  of  living  was  high,  ministers 
were  incompetent.  America  had  come  in,  but  it 
would  be  some  time  before  she  was  ready  to  send 
an  army  overseas.  One  set  of  papers  smilingly 
proclaimed  that  all  was  well;  another  hinted  at 
startling  revelations.  He  looked  at  the  theatrical 
advertisements;  he  failed  to  recognize  most  of 
the  names  displayed  in  large  type.  What  had 
become  of  Irving  and  Hare  and  Wyndham? 
What  were  these  things  they  called  revues?  He 
looked  through  the  Parliamentary  reports.  "The 
Prime  Minister — Mr.  Lloyd-George!"  He  sat 
back  in  his  arm-chair,  chuckling. 

It  was  curious  to  have  a  sort  of  black  curtain 
drawn  across  fifteen  years  of  one's  life,  but  what 
one  saw  when  the  curtain  rose  was  even  more 
amazing.  Great  men  fallen,  obscure  politicians 
in  office,  new  slogans,  new  shibboleths,  a  coalition 
government,  Ireland  still  unhappy;  the  bishops, 
with  cotton-wool  in  their  ears  to  drown  the  roar 
of  the  guns,  academically  debating  whether  the 
late  lamented  Charles  Stuart  should  be  officially 
recognized  as  a  saint;  tribunals — some  exempting 
everyone,  others  exempting  none;  a  food  con- 
troller, himself  a  retired  tradesman,  beating  a 
tomtom  in  honor  of  the  once  despised  potato, 
and  issuing  orders  and  instructions  that  were 


THREADS  lor 

sufficiently  contradictory  to  suggest  Savoy  Opera. 
Which  reminded  John :  why  were  not  Gilbert  and 
Sullivan  operas  a  permanent  feature  of  London 
entertainments?  In  Savoy  Opera,  England  had 
produced  something  no  other  nation  could  touch 
or  improve  upon;  but  Gilbert  and  Sullivan,  like 
Shakespeare,  were  evidently  neglected  by  Lon- 
doners. Perhaps  Westminster  feared  the  influ- 
ence of  a  rival  in  topsy-turvy  humor. 

"I  should  like  to  see  'lolanthe'  or  The  Mika- 
do,'"  sighed  John,  lighting  another  cigarette; 
"and  I  have  n't  the  slightest  desire  to  solve  the 
mysteries  of  'Next,  Please'  or  'Mind  the  Step'  or 
'Splish  Splosh,'  even  with  an  unequaled  beauty 
chorus — whatever  that  may  be." 

This  was  unenterprising.  "Splish  Splosh"  was 
an  attraction  to  which  crowds  flocked  nightly; 
it  set  the  fashion  in  conversational  colloquialisms 
and  its  catch  phrases  were  universally  quoted. 
The  music  was  not  too  subtle  for  the  average 
intelligence,  and  scarcely  ever  erred  on  the  side 
of  being  inaudible  to  the  gallery.  In  fact,  when 
the  musical  director  let  himself  go,  it  was  difficult 
to  hear  the  roar  of  the  motor  omnibus  in  Picca- 
dilly Circus,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  tem- 
porary home  of  "Splish  Splosh."  A  stranger 
might  be  inclined  to  wonder  what  it  was  all  about; 
but  the  audience  had  no  doubts.  There  were  no 
hidden  meanings  in  "Splish  Splosh";  the  jokes 


102  THREADS 

were  admirably  underlined,  and  the  comedians 
were  made  up  to  look  funny.  The  beauty  chorus 
maintained  that  air  of  being  a  beauty  chorus  that 
constitutes  its  sole  attraction. 

There  were  moments  of  hand-clutching  senti- 
mentality. "I  have  never  loved  a  girl  but 
you,"  sang  the  light  baritone  from  the  Bowery; 
and  impressionable  subalterns,  home  on  leave, 
breathed  soft  nothings  into  the  shell-like  ears  of 
charming  maidens  whose  names  they  had  forgot- 
ten, while  the  maidens,  who  would  have  and  had 
had  the  same  soft  nothings  breathed  into  their 
ears  many  times,  by  other  equally  impressionable 
subalterns  home  on  leave,  responded  in  the  usual 
way. 

A  comedian  in  a  comic  hat  exchanged  friendly 
badinage  with  a  comedian  of  the  depressed  order. 
It  was  a  sporting  contest;  each  was  out  to  get 
laughs,  and  the  three-hundred-a-week  comedian 
eventually  scored  over  the  two-hundred-and-fifty- 
a-week  comedian,  much  to  the  joy  of  the  seven- 
and-sixpence-a-day  subaltern  and  the  shilling-a-day 
Tommy  in  the  gallery.  Life  on  leave  was  a  round 
of  rag-time;  ladies  in  five-hundred-guinea  frocks 
sang  (or  tried  to  sing)  rag-time  comments  on 
war  economies;  ladies  crowned  with  priceless  dis- 
plays of  ospreys  sang  (in  rag-time)  dainty  ditties 
that  pointed  out  the  virtues  of  kindness  or  the 
pleasures  of  bird  life;  the  far-famed  beauty 


THREADS  103 

chorus,  in  rag-time,  displayed  their  physical  at- 
tractions to  an  amazingly  generous  extent;  the 
wit  was  out  (evidently  on  leave),  but  a  Rabel- 
aisian facetiousness  had  taken  its  place.  The 
orchestra  did  its  best  to  hide  the  deficiencies  of 
melody  by  making  a  great  deal  of  noise,  just  as 
the  comedians  hid  the  lack  of  wit  in  the  dialogue 
by  facial  expression  and  a  good  deal  of  sugges- 
tion. The  feverish  excitement  of  the  whole  amaz- 
ing entertainment  never  ceased  until  the  curtain 
had  fallen  on  the  finale.  "Splish  Splosh"  was 
typical  of  life  in  London  in  the  comparatively 
early  days  of  the  war. 

About  half-past  ten  Amelia  came  downstairs, 
arrayed  for  church.  She  looked  extraordinarily 
young  and  pretty,  and  John,  in  spite  of  himself, 
felt  his  heart  miss  a  beat. 

"Are  you  coming  to  church?"  she  inquired, 
buttoning  her  gloves. 

"No,  my  dear,  thank  you!"  said  John.  "My 
church-going  has  been  compulsory  for  the  last 
fifteen  years,  and  I  fancy  my  soul  can  stand  a 
day  off." 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,"  replied  Amelia; 
"though  I  should  have  thought  that  under  the 
circumstances — getting  your  freedom  so  unex- 
pectedly, so  miraculously — "  She  looked  at  him 
a  little  reproachfully. 

John   laughed.      "My   dear!   because   the   in- 


io4  THREADS 

scrutable  decrees  of  providence  caused  me  to 
spend  fifteen  years  of  my  life  in  prison  for  another 
man's  offense,  it  does  n't  follow  that  I  am  over- 
whelmed with  gratitude  when  providence  decides 
to  end  the  joke;  it  doesn't  remove  my  grudge 
against  providence;  neither  does  it  give  me  any 
abnormal  admiration  for  its  methods  of  justice. 
I  don't  feel  disposed  to  go  down  on  my  knees 
in  thankfulness  because  providence — as  the  say- 
ing goes — has  discovered  its  error  in  time ;  though 
I  might  perhaps  put  up  a  prayer  that  it  may  be 
more  careful  in  future." 

Amelia  frowned.  "I  hope  you  have  n't  de- 
veloped a  spirit  of  irony.  No  one  understands  it 
— in  England;  at  any  rate,  not  in  our  set." 

"I  have  developed  nothing  but  a  capacity  for 
enjoyment  of  the  humor  of  life.  I  even  saw 
the  humor  of  the  prison  system,"  said  John. 
"My  idea  of  curing  a  man  of  criminal  instincts 
would  be  to  surround  him  with  love,  belief,  and 
beauty — none  of  which  qualities  are  conspicuous 
at  Portland." 

"I  hope  you  don't  think  I  Ve  brought  our  chil- 
dren up  carelessly?"  asked  Amelia,  who  had  a 
genius  for  switching  off  from  one  subject  to 
another  without  warning. 

John  paused  to  blow  some  smoke  through  his 
nose.  "I  have  conceived  a  colossal  admiration 
for  our  children.  They  are  delightful,  and  their 


THREADS  105 

tact  is  amazing,  while  their  consideration  toward 
me  is  quite  touching.  They  have  almost  made  me 
feel  at  home,"  he  added  quietly. 

Amelia  was  at  times  a  puzzle  to  herself.  She 
had  prayed  that  John  would  behave  exactly  as 
he  had  behaved,  and  now  that  he  had  obeyed  her 
unspoken  wishes  she  felt  strangely  resentful 
toward  him  for  having  done  so.  He  was  so 
quiet,  so  self-contained,  so  undemonstrative.  Of 
course  it  was  a  tremendous  relief;  but — had  he 
forgotten?  Did  he  no  longer  love  her  as  he  had 
once  loved  her,  whole-heartedly,  passionately,  as 
a  man  should  love  his  wife  ?  Amelia  did  not  want 
to  be  taken  for  granted;  she  wanted  to  be  wooed 
and  won,  all  over  again.  At  least,  she  thought 
she  did.  She  wanted  John  to  take  up  the  old 
life  gradually,  tactfully;  she  did  not  want  him 
to  accept  her  attitude  as  final.  He  could  n't  love 
her  if  he  accepted  things  like  that.  And  she 
wanted  to  be  loved — she  wanted  it  terribly.  The 
more  deeply  she  felt  a  thing,  the  less  she  showed 
it — as  a  rule.  Their  companionship  had  been  so 
perfect  in  the  old  days.  But  now — John  was  be- 
having as  though  she  were  a  stranger,  as  though 
he  were  a  visitor.  It  chilled  her  advances;  it 
muzzled  her,  preventing  her  from  saying  all  the 
things  that  came  to  her  lips  and  then  retired, 
snubbed,  afraid  to  materialize.  Was  John  dis- 
appointed with  her?  Had  she  grown  old — and 


106  THREADS 

plain?  Was  he  disappointed  with  the  children? 
What  was  he  thinking — under  that  mask  of  gentle 
irony  and  courteous  deference?  Had  he  been 
as  embarrassed  at  meeting  her  again  as  she  had 
been  at  meeting  him? 

"Did  I  tell  you  that  Arthur  is  engaged  to  be 
married?"  she  asked. 

John  looked  up,  his  face  full  of  interest. 

"She  is  the  only  daughter  of  Lord  and  Lady 
Gratham;  they  live  near  Chenies.  Chloe  is  very 
charming,  and  they  are  devoted  to  each  other. 
It  would  be  a  great  pity  if  anything  should  inter- 
fere with  their  engagement." 

"What  should  interfere  with  it?"  inquired 
John. 

"Lord  and  Lady  Gratham  will  have  to  be  told. 
You  see," — Amelia  hesitated  a  little — "they 
thought  I  was  a  widow." 

"And  I  shall  have  to  be  explained  to  them — 
as  I  was  to  the  servants?" 

Amelia  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  appealingly. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  and  call  and  explain 
in  person?"  inquired  John,  patting  her  hand 
soothingly. 

Amelia  had  discussed  the  subject  that  morn- 
ing with  Arthur.  Arthur  had  insisted  on  seeing 
the  thing  through  himself,  and  had  already 
motored  over  to  Chenies.  Arthur  did  not  believe 
in  postponing  unpleasant  necessities. 


THREADS  107 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  want  a  good  deal  of  ex- 
plaining," said  John;  "but  it's  good  experience 
for  Arthur  if  he  intends  to  follow  a  diplomatic 
career." 

"I  don't  think  Chloe  will  mind;  she  is  very 
modern.  And  Lady  Gratham  will  be  all  right — 
as  long  as  there  is  no  fuss.  But  Lord  Gratham 
is  a  terrible  Tory,  and  very  difficult  to  convince, 
once  he  has  made  up  his  mind  about  anything," 
said  Amelia  reflectively. 

It  would  scarcely  be  logical,  thought  John,  to 
blame  Arthur  because  his  father  had  been  the 
victim  of  a  judicial  error;  but,  after  all,  a  member 
of  the  Upper  House  was  rarely  logical. 

"I  suppose  Arthur  must  fight  his  own  battles," 
sighed  Amelia. 

"It  will  be  a  very  good  education  for  him," 
said  John. 

"He  did  very  well  at  Cambridge,"  protested 
Amelia. 

"A  man  only  begins  his  education  when  he 
leaves  the  Varsity,"  said  John.  "Education  con- 
sists of  knowing  what  to  unlearn.  I  hope  Arthur 
lias  n't  acquired  the  academic  mind?" 

"What  is  the  academic  mind?"  inquired 
Amelia,  a  little  puzzled. 

"The  curse  of  party  politics,  the  result  of 
theories  acquired  at  second  hand,  too  much 
classical  education  and  too  little  common  sense. 


io8  THREADS 

Most  young  men  catch  the  disease,  or  they  did 
in  my  day,"  added  John,  smiling  reminiscently. 
"Some  grow  out  of  it,  others  don't.  Politicians 
and  the  minor  clergy,  and  a  certain  type  of  critic 
and  journalist,  are  the  worst  offenders — barring 
private  secretaries  to  Cabinet  Ministers,  who  are 
its  prophets." 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  broken  by  a  chuckle 
from  John.  Strangely  enough,  the  same  thought 
had  occurred  to  him  in  the  same  words  in  which 
it  had  occurred  to  Amelia. 

It  is  a  curious  psychological  coincidence  that 
a  husband  and  wife  who  are  very  close  to  each 
other  in  thought  should  so  often  be  visited  by 
the  same  idea  expressed  in  almost  the  same  words. 

"I  wonder  whether  you  were  as  embarrassed 
at  meeting  me  as  I  was  at  meeting  you?"  inquired 
John. 

"How  could  I  know  what  the  separation  and 
the  suffering  would  have  done  to  you?"  replied 
Amelia  thoughtfully.  "It  might  have  brutalized 
you."  She  shuddered  a  little.  "But  it  seems  to 
have  made  you  more  chivalrous  even  than  you 
used  to  be.  It  was  a  great  gamble,  John,  your 
coming  home." 

"When  I  got  into  the  train  to  come  to  London, 
I  looked  at  myself  in  the  mirror,  and  I  saw — a 
stranger,"  said  John.  "I  was  prepared  for  you 
to  see  a  stranger,  too." 


THREADS  109 

She  hesitated.  "A  man  must  always  be  some- 
thing of  a  stranger  after  fifteen  years.  The  chil- 
dren thought  me  nervous,  hysterical,  strung-up; 
I  was  n't,  John !  I  was  merely — afraid." 

John  nodded.  He  understood;  he  was  gifted 
— or  cursed — with  an  imaginative  insight  into 
other  people's  minds.  He  could  picture  his  wife's 
kaleidoscopic  brain  when  the  news  that  he  was 
coming  home  first  reached  her.  He  had  an 
enormous  sympathy  for  women;  he  understood 
their  point  of  view  as  far  as  a  man  can  grasp  such 
psychological  subtleties.  He  had  been  intimate 
with  few  of  them;  he  had  loved  only  one — his 
wife — and  he  still  loved  her.  Had  she  forgotten 
how  they  had  once  loved?  Could  she  fear  the 
man  to  whom  she  had  so  entirely  surrendered 
herself?  Was  her  shrinking  the  result  of  a  failing 
memory,  of  a  love  long  dead,  or  was  it  due  to 
a  kind  of  esthetic  fastidiousness?  Was  she  dread- 
ing the  intimacies  of  married  life?  Or  had  she 
ceased  to  believe  in  the  innate  chivalry  of  the 
average  decently  bred  man? 

Amelia  had  not  forgotten,  but  it  all  seemed 
like  an  unreal  and  beautiful  dream.  She  could 
not  bring  herself  to  believe  that  their  life  to- 
gether had  actually  happened.  She  must  be 
honest  with  him;  she  owed  him  that.  But  she 
must  also  be  honest  with  herself,  true  to  herself. 
Her  frankness  had  always  been  one  of  her 


no  THREADS 

greatest  attributes;  it  was  the  frankness  of  a  child. 
John  appreciated  it  deeply.  If  they  were  both 
^onest  with  each  other,  misunderstandings  and 
other  matrimonial  pitfalls  could  be  avoided  or 
bridged  over. 

"You  felt  that  time  had  mocked  our  troth?"  he 
asked  sympathetically;  "and  that  the  hopes  and 
beliefs  that  had  come  to  us  in  those  wonderful 
spring  days  of  our  life  together  were  nothing  but 
ashes?" 

Amelia  nodded.  She  had  clutched  at  reality, 
but  it  had  eluded  her.  One  thought  had  con- 
tinued to  hammer  in  her  brain:  who  was  this 
man  who  was  coming  back  to  her,  the  man  who 
called  himself  her  husband?  He  could  n't  be  the 
lover  for  whose  memory  she  had  shed  so  many 
tears,  for  that  lover  had  never  actually  existed, 
except  in  her  dreams.  At  least,  so  it  had  seemed 
to  her  then.  Who  was  he?  and  how  was  she 
to  pretend  that  nothing  had  changed? 

John  had  had  that  same  curious  loss  of  identity 
when  walking  up  from  the  station,  that  perplex- 
ing sense  of  unreality;  but  it  had  passed  on  meet- 
ing his  wife. 

"When  we  said  good-by  I  was  almost  a  girl," 
said  Amelia  a  little  bitterly — for  she  clung  to 
youth  with  the  same  instinct  that  makes  a  half- 
drowned  sailor  cling  to  a  spar.  "I  was  young 
and  slim  and  pretty.  You  once  told  me  that  I  had 


THREADS  in 

the  rare  gift  of  looking  pretty  even  when  I  cried." 

"I  did  n't  exaggerate,"  murmured  John,  smil- 
ing at  the  recollection  her  words  produced. 

"Look  at  me  now!"  she  cried,  challenging  him 
to  tell  her  the  truth.  She  stood  with  her  back 
to  the  window:  a  woman  rarely  discards  a  legiti- 
mate handicap. 

John  looked  at  her  for  some  seconds.  She 
flushed  a  little  under  his  close  scrutiny,  and  her 
heart  gave  a  sudden  leap  as  she  realized  that  he 
could  see  only  the  girl  he  had  seen  fifteen  years 
ago,  the  girl  he  had  seen  in  his  dreams  during 
all  those  cruel,  empty  years.  If  her  instinct  was 
right,  why  did  n't  he  tell  her  so?  She  wanted  him 
to  tell  her.  But  he  was  so  detached,  so  courteous, 
so  impersonal.  "My  mirror  does  n't  lie,"  she 
cried  defiantly. 

"Neither  do  my  eyes,"  said  John. 

"I  hope  your  eyes  will  be  kind  when  they  open 
to  realities,"  pleaded  Amelia,  nervously  button- 
ing the  other  glove. 

Realities?  Yes;  they  would  have  to  establish 
a  modus  vivendi.  What  should  it  be  ?  They  must 
settle  down  and  face  the  situation.  But  how? 
Were  they  to  be  husband  and  wife,  or  was  he 
still  to  be  a  privileged  visitor?  What  was  her 
attitude?  How  did  she  feel  about  all  these 
things?  Should  they  go  away  together,  to  renew 
their  acquaintanceship?  Could  it  be  a  sort  of 


ii2  THREADS 

Indian-summer  honeymoon?  He  broached  the 
question. 

"I  think  that  wouIH  be  unwise,"  she  replied, 
"and  a  little  unfair  to  our  children.  You  have  to 
make  their  acquaintance,  too !" 

John  laughed;  he  would  be  kept  rather  busy. 

"By  the  way,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  "when 
am  I  to  have  the  pleasure  of  making  Seppy's  ac- 
quaintance?" Amelia  looked  up,  frowning  a 
little.  "Shall  I  have  to  be  explained  to  him — as 
I  was  to  cook?"  he  added  in  a  voice  slightly  tinged 
with  irony. 

"I  am  quite  ready  to  laugh  at  him  myself, 
John,"  she  protested;  "but  it  irritates  me  to  have 
other  people  laughing  at  him.  He  has  been  a 
very  good  friend  to  me.  The  children  think  him 
a  little  ridiculous,  a  little  exaggerated;  but  no 
woman  of  my  age  could  help  feeling  a  certain 
admiration  for  a  man  who  devoted  himself  so 
entirely  to  her  interests." 

"My  dear!"  said  John,  "/  am  prepared  to  de- 
vote my  entire  life  to  your  interests;  it  is  the  only 
privilege  I  retain.  But  if  Seppy  and  I  are  both  on 
the  same  job  it  may  cause  complications." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  want  to  avoid,"  replied 
Amelia.  "Seppy  has  earned  my  friendship;  I 
can't  withdraw  it  suddenly  without  a  reason.  It 
would  n't  be  fair.  You  can  see  that,  can't  you, 
John?" 


THREADS  113 

"Certainly!"  he  agreed.  "If  you  can  argue 
such  a  thing  from  a  reasonable  point  of  view?" 

Amelia  had  never  been  very  deep ;  she  had  been 
clinging.  She  had  clung  to  her  husband,  and 
had  worshiped  him;  and  he  had  been  snatched 
out  of  her  life,  leaving  her  with  nothing  to  cling 
to.  She  had  done  her  duty  to  their  children,  but 
that  had  filled  only  part  of  her  life.  No  reason- 
able woman  thinks  of  her  children  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  every  other  interest.  She  was  still  young 
— still  a  woman.  Some  people  might  think  it 
horrid,  but  it  was  not  horrid  really,  it  was  natural 
that  some  women  could  not  be  content  just  to  be 
mothers.  They  needed  to  be  thought  of  as  women 
too.  "It  does  n't  imply  that  I  'm  not  loyal," 
argued  Amelia;  "and  it  does  n't  imply  that  I  am 
frivolous."  What  it  did  imply  was  that  she  was 
tremendously  conscientious. 

Some  women  are  far  more  conscientious  where 
other  people  are  concerned  than  they  are  with 
regard  to  themselves  and  their  own  affairs. 
Amelia  was  a  conscientious  guardian  of  her  most 
cherished  memories;  she  kept  them  locked  up  in 
Jier  heart,  and  wore  the  key  where  she  could  feel 
it  night  and  day.  She  had  been  forced  to  wrap 
up  her  memories  of  her  husband,  and  to  put  them 
away  in  a  drawer,  sacred  to  her  youth.  For  the 
sake  of  her  children,  she  had  tried  to  forget — 
and  to  look  forward.  But  she  was  not  the  type 


ii4  THREADS 

of  woman  who  could  look  forward  to  loneliness 
unafraid.  No  man  could  ever  be  to  her  what 
John  had  once  been;  but  that  did  not  make  it 
inevitable  that  she  should  rule  all  men  for  ever 
out  of  her  life.  And  now  that  he  had  come  home, 
he  must  either  win  her  all .  over  again,  win  her 
entirely,  or  they  would  have  to  be  content  with 
memories — and  friendship.  She  was  still  a 
woman — a  woman  who  had  been  robbed  of  fifteen 
years  of  her  youth — and  she  clung  desperately  to 
what  remained  of  the  youth  that  made  her  still 
desirable. 

"Is  there  yet  the  ghost  of  the  youth  you  once 
loved  in  me?  Can  you  again  materialize  it?" 
John  asked,  echoing  her  unspoken  thoughts. 

"Admiration — devotion — love — can  keep  a 
woman  young  when  the  years  deny  her  the  right," 
replied  Amelia  rather  wistfully. 

John  looked  at  her  keenly.  "Is  it  Seppy's  ad- 
miration and  devotion  that  have  kept  you  young, 
in  spite  of  tragic  memories?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Amelia  quietly;  "and  I  am  grateful. 
What  woman  could  help  being  grateful?" 

"It  brings  us  back  to  the  elemental,  does  n't 
it?"  asked  John,  smiling.  "Seppy  and  I  will  have 
to  take  off  the  gloves." 

Amelia  frowned.  It  was  not  the  subject  for 
a  joke.  John's  theory  that  one  must  take  life 
with  a  laugh  or  perish  mentally  had  always  irri- 


THREADS  115 

tated  her.  John  would  laugh  on  the  scaffold. 
She  shivered  at  the  thought.  How  near  he  had 
been  to  proving  her  point!  But  no  reasonable 
woman  makes  fun  of  her  emotions  or  laughs  at 
the  source  from  which  they  spring. 

"Are  you  very  shocked  at  what  I've  said?" 
she  asked.  "Are  you  very  disappointed  ?  Do  you 
feel  as  though  you  have  been  cheated  out  of  your 
rights?" 

"My  dear!"  said  John,  "a  man  has  no  rights 
that  he  does  n't  earn.  I  have  the  privilege  of 
being,  I  hope,  a  welcome  visitor  in  this  house,  and 
if  I  cannot  be  content  with  that,  it  is  up  to  me  to 
win  the  larger  privileges." 

"Thank  you,  John!"  Amelia  took  up  her 
prayer-book,  slipped  half  a  crown  into  her  left- 
hand  glove,  and  gave  a  final  readjustment  to  her 
hat.  "And  now  I  think  I  had  better  go  to 
church." 

"Will  you  pray  for  a  miracle?"  inquired  John 
a  little  grimly. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  pray  for;  I  am  con- 
stitutionally unfitted  to  decide  things  for  myself," 
said  Amelia,  with  a  sigh.  "I  think  I  shall  just 
pray  for  everything  to  come  right." 

John  chuckled:  it  was  the  national  habit  of 
evading  responsibility.  Fortunately,  Amelia  did 
not  notice  his  amusement. 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  church?"  she  inquired  as 


n6  THREADS 

Olive  entered  the  room  apparently  dressed  for 
motoring. 

"No,  mother.  As  you  wouldn't  go  motoring 
with  Mr.  Jordan,  I  'm  going  instead,"  replied 
Olive,  assured  by  her  father's  presence  that  argu- 
ment would  be  barred. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Jordan?"  inquired  John,  looking 
up  from  a  perusal  of  Mr.  Garvin's  views  on  the 
general  situation. 

"We  met  him  in  Paris,"  replied  Olive,  adjust- 
ing her  veil,  "just  before  the  war.  We  were  stay- 
ing at  the  same  hotel,  and  he  was  so  attentive 
to  mother  that  she  naturally  could  n't  resist  ask- 
ing him  to  call.  He  has  been  calling  ever  since. 
He  takes  her  motoring,  and  to  theaters  and  con- 
certs— when  Seppy  is  off  duty." 

"Has  he  been  a  good  friend,  too?"  asked  John, 
with  a  mischievous  twinkle. 

"Mr.  Jordan  has  the  rare  faculty  of  making  a 
woman  feel  she  is  doing  him  a  favor  in  accepting 
his  hospitality,"  said  Amelia  reproachfully. 

John  smiled.  "I  should  be  far  more  afraid  of 
the  man  who  made  you  feel  he  was  doing  you 
a  favor  in  offering  it." 

"He  has  heaps  of  money,  and  no  one  to  help 
him  spend  it,"  explained  Olive.  "He  's  very  nice 
to  me  when  mother  is  busy — and  I  'm  trying  to 
teach  him  English." 

"American  men  always  make  a  chaperone  feel 


THREADS  117 

she  is  welcome — under  any  circumstances,"  said 
Amelia. 

Olive  laughed.  "A  chaperone?  I  like  that, 
mother!  If  anyone  is  the  chaperone,  it 's  me.  I 
never  get  a  chance  to  be  anything  else." 

Amelia  frowned  and  changed  the  subject. 

"Where  is  Jimmy?"  she  inquired.  "Is  he  com- 
ing to  church?" 

"He  's  in  the  bath-room,  lazy  little  beast!"  said 
the  young  Harrovian's  sister.  "He  said  you  could 
represent  him  at  church,  mother,  and  he  hoped 
breakfast  would  n't  be  late." 

The  gentle  purring  of  a  thousand-guinea  car 
broke  the  summer  silence. 

"Would  you  like  a  drive,  father?"  asked  Olive. 

"No,  thank  you,  my  dear!  I'm  very  com- 
fortable," replied  John. 

"I  expect  you  have  a  lot  to  say  to  mother. 
Oh,  I  forgot  she  was  going  to  church !  Never 
mind!  There  are  heaps  of  books.  And  you 
might  have  a  chat  with  Jimmy;  he  badly  needs  a 
father's  hand  at  times." 

"Do  you  mean  to  lean  on?"  inquired  John. 

"No,"  replied  Olive  emphatically;  "the  other 
thing." 


CHAPTER  IX 

Reformer:  What  is  the  motto  on  the  badge  you  are  all  wearing? 
Merchant:  "Business  as  usual."  .  .  .  Excuse  me!     I  have  an  engage- 
ment to  play  golf.  [Exit. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  a. 

THE  English  habit  of  taking  things  for  granted, 
together  with  the  national  dislike  of  explaining 
things,  are  difficult  attributes  for  a  foreigner  to 
grasp.  He  comes  to  England,  anxious  to  learn 
the  point  of  view;  but,  unless  he  is  prepared  to 
remain  for  an  indefinite  period,  his  education  in 
that  respect  continues  to  be  neglected.  The 
Englishman's  point  of  view  is  rarely  what  it  ap- 
pears to  be,  and  he  never  explains  it  to  anyone. 
After  many  years'  residence  the  guest  suddenly 
recognizes  the  fact,  and  it  either  irritates  or 
charms  him.  Foreigners  wonder  why  the  English 
invariably  hang  out  their  dirty  linen  for  the  whole 
world  to  gaze  upon,  and  it  takes  some  years  to 
realize  that  they  do  it  out  of  pride.  This  pride 
in  themselves  as  a  nation  is  so  intense  that  they 
can  afford  to  make  themselves  out  much  worse 
than  they  really  are;  hence  the  national  aptitude 
for  grousing.  Strangers  criticize  the  British  and 
their  methods,  and  the  British  invariably  agree 

118 


THREADS  119 

with  them;  but  they  never  alter  either  their 
methods  or  their  philosophy. 

In  the  English  country  it  is  taken  for  granted 
that  everyone  knows  where  everyone  else  lives; 
no  one  would  dream  of  having  "Belle  Vue"  or 
"Chatsworth"  painted  on  his  gates,  unless  he  was 
a  suburbanite  who  had  strayed  into  the  country 
by  accident,  after  a  lifetime  spent  in  catching  the 
eight-fifty  train  to  the  City.  For  in  the  suburbs 
no  one  knows  who  anyone  is,  and  those  who  do 
are  not  quite  certain.  They  merely  guess  at  one 
another's  incomes.  But  the  suburbs  do  not  rep- 
resent England;  they  are  a  kind  of  half-way 
house  between  the  transient  and  the  permanent. 
The  man  who  takes  a  pride  in  the  architecture  of 
a  suburb,  or  cares  what  becomes  of  it  after  he 
himself  has  ceased  to  sleep  in  one  of  its  aggressive 
villas,  may  have  acquired  a  dawning  sense  of 
patriotism,  but  it  is  still  in  the  elementary  stage. 
When  a  man  says  to  you:  "I  'm  a  Sussex  man!" 
he  speaks  as  one  of  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and 
glories  in  the  fact;  but  could  anyone  imagine  a 
sane  person  glorying  in  the  fact  that  he  was  born 
at  Upper  Tooting? 

Jordan  had  been  in  England  for  some  years, 
but  he  still  liked  to  have  things  explained  to  him. 
He  was  ready  to  accept  the  English  point  of  view 
in  reason,  but  there  were  moments  when  the  Eagle 
ruffled  its  feathers  in  amazement. 


120  THREADS 

"I  guess  I  'm  a  little  late,"  he  remarked 
anxiously  as  Parsons  ushered  him  into  the  living- 
room. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Olive.  "You  have  n't  met  my 
father,  have  you?" 

Jordan  gasped.  "Your  father?  I — I  didn't 
know  you  had  a  father;  that  is,  I  didn't  know 
you  had  a  father  living." 

"Neither  did  we — until  yesterday,"  said  Olive 
calmly;  "though  I  think  mother  ought  to  have 
told  you."  The  emphasis  on  the  "you"  was  a 
score  to  her,  but  a  trifle  crude. 

Jordan  grasped  John's  hand  and  shook  it 
warmly.  "I  am  very  pleased  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance, sir!"  he  said. 

"And  I  to  make  yours,  Mr.  Jordan!"  replied 
John. 

Jordan  heaved  a  sigh  of  embarrassment.  "I 
had  always  heard  that  the  English  left  things  to 
explain  themselves,"  he  remarked. 

"Father  has  been  in  prison,"  explained  Olive 
politely. 

Jordan  blinked.  He  thought  he  had  been  well 
steeled  against  surprises  where  the  English  were 
concerned,  but  his  first  line  of  defense  had  been 
very  nearly  carried.  "I  beg  your  pardon?"  he 
ejaculated. 

"They  thought  he  had  done  something  he 
had  n't  done ;  and  now  they  have  found  out  that 


THREADS  121 

someone  else  did  it,  they  have  let  him  out,"  said 
Olive. 

Jordan  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Excuse  me!"  he 
remarked.  "When  William  of  Normandy  con- 
quered Great  Britain,  I  guess  he  rang  up  the  Lord 
Mayor,  London,  and  said:  'Are  you  there?  Ex- 
cuse me!  I  Ve  conquered  your  country;  but  I  'm 
always  at  home  for  afternoon  tea  if  you  'd  care 
to  drop  in!'  and  let  it  go  at  that." 

John  protested.  "William  did  n't  really  con- 
quer England,  Mr.  Jordan;  England  eventually 
conquered  him  and  his  successors.  The  English 
spirit  is  unconquerable;  you  can't  argue  with  it!" 

"I  wonder  if  the  other  William  realizes  what 
{he  's  up  against,"  said  Jordan. 

"We  did  n't  bother  much  about  the  war  at 
Portland,"  replied  John. 

"Some  people  don't  bother  much  about  it — out 
of  Portland,"  reflected  Jordan. 

"I  expect  Germany  is  jealous  of  the  Albert 
Memorial  and  wants  to  set  it  up  in  Berlin,"  sug- 
gested John. 

"You  don't  take  your  country's  peril  seriously," 
Jordan  protested. 

"Why  worry,  Mr.  Jordan,"  replied  John 
genially,  "while  we  have  heaven  and  the  Daily 
Mail  to  guide  us?  We  have  often  been  in  peril 
before;  we  have  grown  accustomed  to  being  in 
peril.  After  all,  we  are  in  deadly  peril  every 


122  THREADS 

time  we  indulge  in  that  delicious  harlequinade 
called  a  general  election.  War  may  bring  sor- 
row to  the  individual,  bankruptcy  to  the  patriot, 
wealth  to  the  profiteer,  and  security  to  the  indis- 
pensable ;  but  it  does  n't  alter  us  fundamentally. 
We  always  take  a  year  or  two  to  think  it  over, 
a  year  or  two  to  prepare  for  it,  a  year  or  two  to 
quarrel  about  who  is  to  take  charge  of  it,  a  year 
or  two  to  fight  it  out,  and  a  century  or  so  in 
squaring  up  accounts.  We  make  the  same  mis- 
takes, the  same  miscalculations,  the  same  resolu- 
tions for  the  avoidance  of  those  same  mistakes; 
and  then  a  new  craze  comes  along,  a  boxing  bout 
or  a  golf  tournament,  and  we  forget  all  about 
our  preparations  for  defense  and  let  things  slide. 
The  average  Englishman,  Mr.  Jordan,  will  real- 
ize Germany's  intentions  and  have  Germany's 
methods  brought  home  to  him  only  when  he  sees 
Uhlans  in  Piccadilly;  and  even  then  he  will  be  too 
busy  selling  'presents  from  London'  to  the  Uhlans 
to  worry  very  much." 

"Excuse  me!"  said  Jordan  stiffly.  "Your 
British  soldiers  and  sailors  have  proved  them- 
selves miracles.  It  is  an  honor,  sir,  to  be  allied 
with  you  on  that  account,  if  on  no  other." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Jordan."  John  smiled  his 
acknowledgment  of  the  testimonial.  Being  an 
average  Englishman,  he  took  such  things  for 
granted. 


THREADS  123 

"I  agree  with  you  that  London  has  reached  a 
point  hitherto  unknown  in  its  love  of  luxury 
and  display,"  continued  Jordan.  "The  war  does 
not  appear  to  have  sobered  the  nation.  Every- 
thing is  booming." 

John  thought  of  the  commercial  traveler's  talk 
on  the  train. 

"Talking  of  luxuries,  Mr.  Jordan,  how  do  you 
manage  to  wangle  enough  petrol  to  go  joy- 
riding?"  inquired  Olive. 

"Pardon  me!"  interrupted  John.  "What  is 
the  meaning  of  'wangle'  and  'joy-ride'  ?" 

"Wangle  is  an  army  term:  it  means  getting 
something  you  are  not  entitled  to  in  a  perfectly 
legitimate  manner,"  explained  Olive.  "And  joy- 
ride  is  American  for  using  petrol  on  urgent  private 
affairs." 

John  had  spoken  of  the  Norman  invasion  as 
though  it  had  happened  yesterday.  The  English 
have  long  memories,  but  little  imagination;  they 
bow  to  the  past,  but  ignore  the  future.  John 
had  not  realized  the  American  invasion,  which 
was  an  accomplished  fact.  It  had  begun  fifteen 
years  ago,  at  the  time  of  his  retirement  from 
active  interest  in  life. 

"Now  we  talk  American  so  naturally  that  we 
don't  realize  it  isn't  English,"  said  Olive;  "you 
even  read  of  'stunts'  in  leading  articles,  and  our 
armies  march  to  rag-time." 


I24  THREADS 

It  was  perfectly  true.  America  had  responded 
to  England's  call  for  help,  and  had  sent  her 
representatives  to  teach  American  business 
methods.  Rattigan,  that  pioneer  of  the  great  de- 
partment store,  had  gone  over  to  show  London 
how  a  great  shop  could  be  run  with  efficiency  and 
courtesy;  he  had  welcomed  English  customers  to 
his  establishment,  and  they  were  not  assailed  by 
importunate  hand-washing  shopwalkers,  neither 
were  they  looked  upon  with  suspicion  if  they  wan- 
dered around  looking  at  the  tempting  display  of 
things  for  sale;  they  were  made  to  feel  at  home, 
and  invited  to  look  upon  Rattigan's  as  a  kind  of 
club  where  they  could  meet  their  friends,  write 
their  letters,  rest  and  refresh  themselves,  and,  if 
the  spirit  moved  them,  buy  something  they  needed 
or  thought  they  did.  Even  men,  shop-haters  as  a 
sex,  were  attracted  by  Rattigan's.  And  the  at- 
tendants were  so  obliging;  they  never  fired  con- 
temptuous looks  at  the  nervous  shopper,  they 
helped  her  to  make  up  her  mind,  and,  if  she  was 
incapable  of  that,  they  made  it  up  for  her. 
Undoubtedly  Rattigan  was  a  genius,  for  he  un- 
derstood human  nature,  and  allowed  it  to  be 
understood  that  dividends  were  the  last  things  he 
desired,  and  that  his  patron's  comfort  and  satis- 
faction were  his  one  and  immediate  object.  A  few 
conventional  shop  assistants  managed  to  obtain 
employment  there,  but  they  were  quickly  "fired"; 


THREADS  125 

they  failed  to  represent  the  atmosphere.    And  if 
Rattigan  was  a  genius,  Jordan  was  his  prophet. 

America  had  also  taken  charge  of  the  British 
theater.  The  British  theater,  which  had  won  its 
position  by  producing  French  adaptations,  Ger- 
man farces,  and  Austrian  comic  operas,  had  fallen 
into  a  bad  rut.  Some  foolish  and  ignorant  man- 
agers had  been  brave  enough  to  produce  plays 
by  English  dramatists,  not  amateur  playwrights 
with  an  established  position  in  society,  but  genu- 
ine, hard-working,  modest,  self-effacing  British 
dramatists,  and,  naturally,  there  had  been  a 
national  outcry.  British  plays,  like  British  music 
and  British  paintings,  were  not  fashionable.  The 
British  habit  of  self-depreciation  had  killed  the 
creative  arts  and  ruined  the  creative  artists.  And, 
when  the  war  broke  out,  managers  grew  panicky. 
They  anticipated  ruin.  They  revived  old  plays — ? 
the  least  representative  they  could  lay  their  hands 
on;  and,  naturally,  the  public  failed  to  respond. 
Then  one  enterprising  manager,  braving  the 
dangers  of  the  submarine,  went  to  New  York 
and  suggested  transplanting  the  English  theater 
to  America,  a  project  that  failed  lamentably,  and 
the  American  theater  to  England,  a  project  that 
proved  an  immediate  success.  There  was  a  boom 
in  American  plays.  Comedies  made  in  America : 
farces  made  in  America ;  revues  made  in  America; 
comic  operas  made  in  America,  were  advertised 


126  THREADS 

from  every  bill-board.  English  managers,  who 
hesitated  to  pay  an  English  dramatist  a  hundred 
pounds  in  advance  of  royalties,  paid  thousands  for 
an  option  on  any  American  play.  Dances  being 
tabu,  and  entertainments  in  private  houses  con- 
sidered bad  form,  the  theater  became  the  sole 
center  of  amusement;  and  England's  gallant  ally 
reaped  the  benefit.  Those  great  American 
dramatists,  Mr.  Hermann  Ollendorf,  Miss 
Rachel  Ikinstein,  Mr.  Grant  Sherman  Katzen- 
jammer,  and  others  of  the  little  coterie  that  has 
its  finger  on  the  pulse  of  the  Great  White  Way, 
would  sit  in  the  basement  of  a  Rathskellar  be- 
tween 34th  and  42 d  streets  on  Broadway,  New 
York,  drinking  steins  of  lager  beer  and  munching 
JPeinerwurst,  counting  their  royalties  with  amaze- 
ment; while  neglected  British  dramatists  who 
were  not  in  the  army  sat  in  the  smoking-room  of 
the  Garrick  Club,  wondering  when  native  talent 
would  get  a  look  in. 

There  are  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  mis- 
takes a  British  creative  artist  can  make  before  he 
succeeds  in  producing  a  masterpiece;  but  the  one 
irreparable  error  he  commits  is  that  of  being  born 
an  Englishman. 

"Bedad !  It 's  like  takin'  money  from  a  blind 
beggar,"  chuckled  Mr.  Tim  Dooley,  the  senti- 
mental but  clear-thinking  managing  director  of 
some  thirty-seven  "incorporations,"  as  he  pock- 


THREADS  127 

eted  a  check  for  ten  thousand  dollars  premium 
drawn  by  the  English  theatrical  manager  who  de- 
sired to  produce  the  celebrated  farce  "Aunty's 
Undies." 

"It 's  very  nice  of  Mr.  Jordan  to  put  up  with 
me,"  said  Olive ;  "I  'm  sure  mother  is  heaps  more 
amusing." 

John  looked  at  Amelia,  a  little  perplexed. 
"Are  you  fond  of  motoring?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,"  said  Amelia,  "very.    Why?" 

"I  shall  buy  a  car,"  said  John;  "I  shall  learn 
to  drive."  He  looked  at  her  again.  "Does  Seppy 
take  you  joy-riding?"  he  inquired,  his  eyes  alight 
with  humor. 

"He  did"  said  Olive,  "until  the  W.O.  stepped 
in  with  army  order  number  two  million  and 
twenty-nine  and  put  a  stop  to  it.  Even  a  staff 
officer  has  to  obey  army  orders  after  they  have 
been  translated  into  English." 

"I  shall  buy  two  cars,"  said  John. 

Amelia  looked  at  him.  It  was  difficult  to  tell 
when  John  was  in  earnest.  If  you  took  a  joke 
seriously  it  was  a  score  to  him,  but  if  you  took  a 
serious  thing  as  a  joke  you  invariably  paid  for 
it  before  long. 

A  man's  joke  to  a  woman  is  like  the  Irishman's 
foot — rather  heavy-handed. 

"My  dear  Amelia,  why  should  n't  I  take  you 
motoring?"  inquired  John,  with  that  peculiar 


128  THREADS 

gravity  which,  in  a  man,  invariably  conceals  a 
chuckle.  "I  'm  hanged  if  I  '11  be  content  to  joy- 
ride  in  the  chimney-corner,  all  by  myself !" 

uOh,  father!  How  splendid!"  cried  Olive. 
"Now  perhaps  /  shall  get  a  chance." 

Amelia  radiated  annoyance.  "Please  don't  be 
silly,  John,"  she  said  rather  reprovingly.  "You 
will  make  Mr.  Jordan  feel  embarrassed." 

"I  should  like  him  to  feel  embarrassed,"  re- 
plied John  gravely,  his  gravity  mocked  by  the 
twinkle  in  his  eyes.  "I  shall  buy  a  car  to-morrow, 
and  when  he  next  offers  to  take  you  motoring,  I 
shall  turn  him  over  to  Olive  and  take  you  my- 
self." 

"If  you  're  going  to  talk  nonsense,  I  think  I 
had  better  go  to  church,"  said  Amelia,  once  again 
gathering  up  her  impedimenta. 

"I  am  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Jordan,  for  all  the 
attention  you  have  shown  to  my  wife,"  said  John; 
"but  in  future  you  will  have  a  rival!" 

Jordan  smiled.  "I  guess  I  'm  sufficiently  a 
sportsman  to  know  when  I  'm  beaten,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "May  we  give  you  a  lift  in  the  car,  Mrs. 
Osborne?"  he  added,  with  that  courteous  defer- 
ence that  is  impossible  to  imitate. 

"Please  don't  trouble,"  said  Amelia;  "I  prefer 
to  walk." 

"Mother  does  n't  mean  to  monopolize  all  the 
men  who  come  here,"  explained  Olive,  after  her 


THREADS  129 

mother  had  taken  her  departure ;  "she  does  it  un- 
consciously. She  has  a  very  strong  will;  but  only 
a  woman  could  realize  that." 

"Don't  you  like  men?"  asked  Jordan,  a  little 
puzzled. 

"Oh,  yes!"  replied  Olive.  "I  think  they  are 
lots  of  fun.  But  they  're  not  necessary  to  me.  I 
like  going  out  with  a  man,  but  I  should  be  just 
as  happy  taking  out  the  dogs." 

After  he  had  watched  their  departure  in  the 
car,  John  settled  down  once  more  to  his  pile  of 
newspapers;  but  his  thoughts  wandered  and 
played  around  new  impressions  he  was  receiving 
every  hour.  Jordan  was  a  nice  fellow;  Americans 
were  nearly  always  amusing — and  interesting. 
After  all,  the  English  had  an  ineradicable  habit  of 
looking  upon  Americans  as  their  own  people — 
separated  from  them  politically  but  not  socially* 
It  was  a  harmless  little  national  vanity,  and  the 
really  nice  American  usually  took  it  in  the  spirit 
in  which  it  was  meant.  And  Jordan  was  evidently 
proud  of  his  British  ancestry — which  proved  he 
was  a  good  fellow. 

John  returned  to  his  papers;  he  enjoyed  their 
attitude  toward  the  war — and  toward  those  inter- 
ests each  particular  newspaper  was  supposed  to 
represent.  Here  was  one  proving  indubitably 
that  the  stoppage  of  racing  meant  the  extinction 
of  blooded  stock.  Besides,  what  would  happen  to 


130  THREADS 

all  the  bookmakers  and  punters,  to  the  jockeys  and 
stable-boys,  and  to  the  thousand  and  one  com- 
ponents of  that  heterogeneous  crowd  known  to 
fame  as  racing  men,  if  racing  were  forbidden  ?  It 
would  be  better  that  the  transport  service  should 
be  held  up  for  want  of  petrol,  soldiers'  leave 
stopped  for  want  of  railway  accommodation,  than 
to  risk  extinction  of  British  blooded  stock-  The 
one  fact  that  particular  newspaper  failed  to  re- 
mark was:  what  would  happen  to  the  blooded 
stock  if  the  Germans  swarmed  over  Newmarket 
Heath  and  the  Hampshire  and  Wiltshire  Downs? 

Another  newspaper  reminded  John  of  the  small 
boy  who  kept  saying:  "You  wyte  till  my  father 
comes  'ome;  'e  '11  give  you  what  for!"  This  one 
had  little  to  say  concerning  the  war,  but  quite  a 
lot  about  Mr.  Winston  Churchill.  After  some 
study,  John  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  jour- 
nal in  question  did  n't  like  Mr.  Churchill  very 
much,  and  disapproved  of  his  ideas.  There  was 
a  serious  weekly,  edited  by  a  well-known  publicist; 
it  reminded  him  of  an  anemic  curate  playing  baga- 
telle with  some  Durban  coal-miners.  And  a 
popular  Sunday  paper,  featuring  another  publicist, 
whose  views,  for  which  the  educated  classes  waited 
anxiously  during  the  week,  were  set  forth  rather 
in  the  manner  of  a  headmaster  addressing  the 
lower  school. 

And,  best  of  all,   the  Morning  Megaphone, 


THREADS  131 

striking  an  attitude  in  the  center  of  the  stage  and 
reminding  its  enraptured  audience  that  "me  and 
'eaven  is  'ere !" 

Indeed,  it  would  be  a  sad  thing  for  the  nation 
if  the  journalists  ceased  to  take  themselves  seri- 
ously. 

And  what  a  luxury  it  was  to  sit  in  a  comfort- 
able chair  I  He  would  be  perfectly  happy  doing 
nothing  else. 

What  curious  people  his  countrymen  were ! 
The  men  who  did  things  had  n't  time  to  talk  about 
them,  and  the  men  who  talked  about  them  had  n't 
time  to  do  them. 

The  Americans  talked  about  them  while  they 
were  doing  them. 

Just  as  a  politician  was  a  man  who  made 
speeches,  and  a  statesman  a  man  who  made 
nations. 

He  pulled  himself  up  with  a  start.  The  old 
fascination  of  having  three  long  columns  to  fill 
up  with  his  own  ideas  and  aphorisms — phrases 
that  would  be  quoted  and  discussed  throughout 
the  country — had  asserted  itself.  It  was  the  re- 
sult of  reading  the  views  of  the  newer  school 
of  publicists.  He  would  give  up  reading  news- 
papers. He  took  up  the  Referee* 


CHAPTER  X 

Let  me  be  acclaimed  by  the  children,  and  their  parents  can  vote  for 
whom  they  please! 

Pro  Patria,  Act  4. 

ABOUT  half-past  eleven  Jimmy,  having  concluded 
a  satisfactory  breakfast  consisting  of  a  pound  or 
two  of  ripe  gooseberries,  some  porridge  and 
cream,  kedgeree,  bacon  and  eggs,  a  slice  of  cold 
ham,  four  cups  of  coffee,  and  seven  or  eight  slices 
of  toast  and  marmalade,  strolled  carelessly  into 
the  living-room,  feeling  a  little  more  fit  to  face 
the  troubles  and  the  frazzles  of  the  British  Sun- 
day; but  he  pulled  up  short  at  the  sight  of  his 
father,  who  looked  like  a  small  piece  of  humanity 
entirely  surrounded  by  newspapers. 

"Hallo!"  he  ejaculated.  "Where's  the 
mater?" 

"She  has  gone  to  church,"  replied  John,  put- 
ting down  the  Referee  and  facing  his  son.  Each, 
man-like,  felt  that  it  was  inevitable  that  they 
should  make  each  other's  acquaintance,  and  each, 
man-like,  was  seized  with  an  instinctive  desire  to 
postpone  the  operation.  Suppose  either  was  to 
give  himself  away  to  the  other ! 

132 


THREADS  133 

Jimmy  turned  and  steered  toward  the  door  in 
a  sudden  panic. 

"Where  are  you  off  to?"  asked  his  father. 

Jimmy  was  foiled.  He  looked  at  the  ceiling, 
the  floor,  the  newspapers,  and  the  sunshine  out- 
side; he  shifted  from  one  leg  to  the  other.  He 
cleared  his  throat.  "Oh,  I  was  just  going  to 
rot  about,"  he  replied. 

"Why  not  sit  down  and  talk  to  me?"  suggested 
his  father. 

Jimmy  sighed.  He  moved  a  little  farther  into 
the  room.  Waterloo  was  won  on  the  playing- 
fields  of  Eton;  Harrow  must  not  linger  in  the 
rear.  He  seated  himself  on  the  arm  of  a  Chester- 
field; the  position  was  not  comfortable,  but  it 
was  distinctly  non-committal. 

"Would  n't  you  like  to  mouch  round  and  see 
the  dogs?"  he  asked. 

It  was  awful  having  to  stick  indoors  and  make 
conversation  with  a  man  he  had  only  just  met 
and  who  might  be  inclined  to  play  the  heavy 
father. 

John  smiled.  "I  don't  feel  a  bit  inclined  for 
compulsory  exercise,"  he  said. 

Jimmy  retired  into  his  shell.  He  felt  that  ,he 
had  let  himself  in  for  it,  and  he  must  see  it 
through;  but  if  the  tone  of  the  conversation 
should  become  too  intimate — well !  he  would  make 
a  bolt  for  it. 


134  THREADS 

"Olive  gone  out?"  he  inquired,  staring  gloomily 
at  the  window. 

John  nodded;  he  stole  an  amused  glance  at  the 
representative  of  Harrovian  training  and  tradi- 
tion; then,  speaking  as  one  gentleman  to  another, 
"Do  you  smoke?"  he  asked. 

Jimmy  stared.  Was  he  joking?  Was  he  in 
earnest?  Or  was  he  trying  to  interfere?  "Just 
once  in  a  way.  Not  supposed  to,  y'  know;  bad 
form  and  all  that,"  replied  Harrow.  "Only 
swabs  do  it  in  public." 

John  considered  the  question  gravely.  "Under 
the  circumstances,  do  you  think  I  might  be  per- 
mitted to  offer  you  one  of  Arthur's  cigarettes?" 
he  inquired. 

"Thanks,"  replied  Jimmy  coolly,  taking  a 
cigarette,  tapping  the  end  to  get  rid  of  loose  to- 
bacco, and  lighting  it  with  a  match  offered  by  his 
amazing  parent;  "Arthur's  cigs  are  usually  pretty 
decent." 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  pause.  Each  was 
furtively  eyeing  the  other,  meditating  a  line  of 
attack;  each  removed  his  cigarette,  glanced  at 
the  brand,  returned  it  to  his  lips,  and  inhaled 
a  comforting  volume  of  smoke. 

"Do  you  like  being  at  Harrow?"  inquired  his 
father  casually. 

"It 's  all  right,"  replied  Jimmy,  still  retaining 
his  non-committal  attitude. 


THREADS  135 

"Nice  set  of  fellows?" 

"Awfully  decent — most  of  them." 

"What  do  you  go  in  for?" 

"Cricket." 

"Bowling  or  batting?" 

"Bowling."  Jimmy  uncrossed  his  legs  and  slid 
on  to  the  couch.  This  was  a  concession.  John 
was  evidently  taking  the  right  tack.  "More 
chance  of  getting  your  flannels." 

"Any  specialty?"  inquired  his  father. 

Jimmy  flushed  a  little;  he  was  proud  of  his 
specialty,  and  consequently,  as  an  Englishman, 
ashamed  to  speak  of  it.  "Rotten  sort  of  break 
both  ways,  and  an  occasional  fast  ball — without 
changing  the  action,"  he  admitted. 

John  nodded  appreciatively.  Cricket  was  to 
him  more  than  a  game;  it  was  a  religion.  He  was 
beginning  to  like  his  younger  son.  "What  about 
work?"  he  inquired  invitingly. 

"Oh,  the  usual  rot!"  replied  his  son  in  an 
offhand  manner.  "I  'm  going  to  swot  up  enough 
to  get  to  the  Varsity."  He  looked  at  his  father 
dubiously.  "I  suppose  I'll  have  to  go  up?"  he 
queried. 

John  exhaled  some  smoke.  "Don't  you  want 
to?"  he  asked. 

Jimmy  considered  the  question.  "I  'd  like  to — 
for  the  sake  of  the  cricket.  Though,  bar  rotting, 
y'  know,  I  'd  like  to  have  a  shot  at  the  R.F.C." 


136  THREADS 

"Is  that  something  new?"  John  vainly  tried 
to  remember  what  R.F.C.  stood  for. 

"It  was.  'T  isn't  now;  everybody's  doing  it. 
I  Ve  been  up  a  couple  of  times."  Jimmy  noticed 
his  father's  perplexed  expression.  "Flying, 
y'know;  the  Royal  Flying  Corps.  Aviation. 
I've  piloted  a  Rumpety  round  the  house;  solo, 
too !  Don't  say  I  said  so,  or  the  chap  might  get 
told  off  for  letting  me  do  it.  He  said  it  was  n't 
half  a  bad  show,  and  he  had  his  wings  up.  He 
said  my  landing  was  fairly  smooth ;  I  thought  my- 
self it  was  fairly  decent.  It 's  some  sport — much 
more  exciting  than  Greek."  He  suddenly  stiffened. 
"Of  course,  if  you  don't  approve — "  he  said. 

"My  dear  fellow,  don't  imagine  I  want  to  in- 
terfere with  your  ambitions,"  protested  his  father. 

"Very  decent  of  you,"  said  Jimmy.  "If  the  war 
goes  on,  I  ought  to  get  into  the  Flying  Corps  in 
a  couple  of  years." 

"I  gather,  from  the  papers  I  have  just  been 
reading,  that  the  big  push  of  1925  is  going  to  do 
the  trick — if  we  have  enough  airplanes  by  then," 
said  John. 

Jimmy  smoked,  apparently  unperturbed.  He 
was  awaiting  his  father's  next  move.  At  a  public 
school  one  was  taught  to  play  a  waiting  game. 
Even  the  huge  influx  of  the  middle  classes  into 
the  public  schools  had  not  entirely  upset  traditions. 
Of  course,  lots  of  the  men  thought  a  bit  too 


THREADS  137 

much  about  money,  and  one  or  two  of  them  sucked 
up  to  lords  and  dukes  and  all  that  rot;  but  the 
majority  were  pretty  decent  on  the  whole. 

uDid  it  ever  occur  to  you  to  wonder  what  it 
might  be  like  to  have  a  father?"  asked  John  sud- 
denly. 

"It  had  occurred  to  Jimmy — once  or  twice — > 
when  his  mother  had  been  abnormally  unrespon- 
sive ;  somehow,  a  house  did  n't  seem  properly  fur- 
nished without  a  man  in  it — that  is,  a  man  who 
knew  a  thing  or  two  about  life,  and  could  give 
a  fellow  tips  about  things  he  did  n't  happen  to 
understand.  Of  course,  his  mother  had  been 
awfully  decent,  but  she  was  a  woman,  and  women 
did  n't  exactly  catch  on  to  things — at  any  rate, 
on  to  certain  things.  It  was  a  bit  awkward,  find- 
ing a  father  when  you  were  n't  looking  for  him, 
but — 

"I  don't  see  why  we  should  n't  get  on  all  right," 
said  Jimmy. 

"I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  be  pals,"  sug- 
gested his  father,  with  a  smile. 

Jimmy  withdrew  a  little  into  his  shell. 
Would  n't  it  be  ghastly  if  his  father  became  emo- 
tional— as  parsons  often  did,  especially  when 
preaching  a  Sunday  evening  sermon?  "That's 
rather  rushing  things,  isn't  it?"  he  suggested. 
"Of  course,  one  never  knows — " 

John  chuckled.     "My  father  belonged  to  the 


i38  THREADS 

old  school,"  he  said;  "he  was  very  autocratic. 
We  had  to  toe  the  line  and  come  to  attention 
pretty  smartly." 

Jimmy  looked  dubious.  "I  don't  think  we 
should  care  about  that  sort  of  parent  nowadays," 
he  remarked. 

"You  educate  us  better  than  we  educated  our 
parents?"  inquired  John  gravely. 

Jimmy  considered  the  question.  "One  has  to 
give  and  take  in  family  life,"  he  asserted. 

John  agreed.  After  all,  it  was  something  to 
have  reached  a  basis  for  agreement.  It  was 
nearly  half-time ;  each  was  getting  his  second  wind. 

"You  '11  find  Arthur  pretty  useful  in  some 
things,"  suggested  Jimmy;  "he  can  tell  you  where 
to  go  to  for  togs  and  cigarettes  and  all  that.  Of 
course,  he  's  rather  given  himself  away  by  getting 
engaged.  I  should  n't  care  to  have  a  girl  hanging 
round  when  I  wanted  to  do  things." 

John  frowned.  "Why  hasn't  he  joined  up?" 
he  asked. 

Jimmy  stiffened.  "Excuse  me  !  I  fancy  that 's 
his  affair,"  he  replied.  "All  the  same,  it  makes 
it  a  bit  rotten  for  me"  he  added  frankly,  "when 
the  fellows  ask  me  what  regiment  my  brother  's 
in.  Olive  's  all  right;  but  she  just  goes  her  own 
way  and  does  n't  interfere — much.  She  made  a 
great  hit  with  the  men  at  Harrow,  so  there 
must  be  something  in  her.  She  is  n't  my  style, 


THREADS  139 

though,"  he  concluded,  looking  at  his  watch  and 
mentally  calculating  whether  the  interview  could 
now  be  tactfully  concluded. 

John  tumbled  to  the  situation.  "Don't  hang 
about  to  entertain  me,  if  you  're  busy,"  he  pro- 
tested. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  Ve  promised  to  run 
over  to  Hendon;  there  's  not  much  wind,  so  there 
may  be  something  doing.  Plenty  of  books  if  you 
want  to  read,"  he  added,  in  the  well-bred  English- 
man's "Make  yourself  at  home,  but  don't  bother 
me"  manner.  "Books  are  n't  much  in  my  line,  so 
I  can't  vouch  for  the  quality;  but  there  are  always 
the  dogs — if  you  get  bored.  You  're  sure  you 
don't  mind  my  pushing  off?  I  'm  doing  a  bit  of 
war-work  in  my  spare  time — fitting  parts  to  new 
machines.  One  likes  to  know  how  the  old  'bus  is 
made,  y'  know!" 

John  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Don't  for- 
get! I  'd  like  to  be  friends — some  day,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  replied  Jimmy.  He 
shook  hands  limply.  "Very  glad  if  we  can  be — 
some  day.  Awfully  decent  of  you  to  suggest  it." 

He  glanced  at  the  window.  "Oh,  hang  it  all  I 
There  's  old  Seppy !  I  '11  leave  you  to  entertain 
him,  if  you  don't  mind!"  And  with  that  he  made 
a  frantic  attack  on  the  door,  and  disappeared  be- 
hind its  protection. 

John  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.    The  ice  had  been 


I4o  THREADS 

broken;  he  was  certain  that  he  and  his  school-boy 
son  would  be  friends.  School-boys  were  remark- 
ably like  dogs :  with  patience  you  could  win  their 
loyalty,  and  with  sympathy  their  affection.  His 
elder  son  would  be  a  more  difficult  problem,  but 
his  daughter,  he  felt,  was  already  a  little  biased 
in  his  favor. 

Could  he  win  his  wife  as  easily?  John  sighed 
and  lighted  another  cigarette. 

When  a  man  starts  out  to  collect  victories,  he 
must  follow  them  up;  flag-wagging  indulged  in 
too  previously  had  led  to  the  recall  of  many  a 
Commander-in-chief,; 


CHAPTER  XI 

Conspirator:  He  loves  your  wife. 
Reformer:  He  shows  good  taste. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  3. 

COLONEL  SEPTIMUS  PACKINDER,  D.S.O.,  was 
born  to  be  a  squire  of  dames;  not  the  recently 
created  kind,  but  the  type  that  is  helpless  without 
a  man  to  put  her  into  taxis,  to  anticipate  her 
desires,  and  to  attach  himself  to  her  parasol, 
dropped  handkerchiefs  and  gloves.  A  bachelor 
of  fifty-seven,  well  valeted,  wearing  his  years 
lightly,  he  was  a  useful  person  to  have  about  the 
house.  He  had  retired  shortly  after  the  South 
African  War,  and  for  some  years  had  lived  a 
comfortable  and  not  over-exciting  life  divided 
between  his  club,  his  friends,  and  the  directorships 
of  a  few  eminently  respectable  corporations.  He 
had  few  equals  in  the  art  of  proposing  a  vote  of 
thanks  to  the  chairman;  he  knew  what  plays  were 
worth  going  to  see,  and  what  books  it  was  desir- 
able to  read.  He  had  a  luxurious  little  flat  in  St. 
James's  Street,  belonged  to  several  of  the  best 
clubs,  and  generally  enjoyed  life.  He  had  always 
been  in  love  with  someone — usually  a  married 

141 


i42  THREADS 

woman,  but  in  a  thoroughly  harmless  fashion.  He 
had  known  Amelia  for  about  twelve  years,  had 
laid  his  heart  and  his  spare  time  at  her  feet,  and 
had  no  complaints  to  make  with,  regard  to  her 
treatment  of  him.  She  was  young,  she  was  at- 
tractive, she  was  comparatively  wealthy;  on  an 
average  he  had  proposed  to  her  three  times  in 
every  two  years,  and  her  regular  refusals  had 
only  served  to  stimulate  his  ardor.  When  war 
broke  out  he  joined  the  noble  army  of  dug-outs, 
and  renewed  his  youth  at  the  expense  of  those 
men  of  the  new  army  who  crossed  his  path.  They 
were,  most  of  them,  men  of  intelligence  and  in- 
itiative, and  Colonel  Packinder,  known  to  his 
friends  as  "Seppy,"  distrusted  intelligence  and 
snubbed  initiative.  "King's  Regulations"  had  be- 
come his  Bible,  army  orders  and  Army  Council 
instructions  limited  his  horizon.  These  amateur 
soldiers  with  ideas,  who  laughed  at  the  sacred 
scroll  of  red  tape,  were  interfering  faddists.  Of 
course,  in  the  early  days  of  the  war,  until  the  op- 
posing armies  sat  down  to  watch  each  other  from 
the  interminable  line  of  trenches,  a  certain  amount 
of  latitude  had  been  allowed;  but  after  that  red 
tape  awoke  from  its  short  doze,  and  octopus-like 
drew  the  whole  army  gradually  into  its  clutches. 
An  officer  who  did  a  thing  while  the  Army  Council 
was  deciding  whether  it  was  possible  for  him  to 
do  it  received  a  severe  reprimand.  The  new  army 


THREADS  143 

officer  as  a  rule  gave  in  after  a  few  months,  and 
inhaled  red  tape  systematically,  thus  hastening  his 
promotion.  Others  could  not  be  induced  to  look 
up  to  headquarters  with  sufficient  reverence.  One 
officer  who  was  in  charge  of  Indian  supplies,  when 
asked  by  the  War  Office  to  explain  why  he  had 
a  surplus  of  a  certain  article  which,  he  was  in- 
formed, was  known  by  two  different  names,  one 
masculine,  one  feminine,  replied  that,  being  un- 
aware of  the  sex  of  the  commodities  in  question, 
he  had  inadvertently  kept  them  in  the  same  store, 
and  that  the  surplus  must  therefore  be  due  to 
natural  causes.  Another  young  officer,  when  ap- 
plying for  leave,  absently  inserted  the  name  of  his 
colonel  in  the  space  provided  for  particulars  as 
to  who  would  answer  for  him  during  his  absence. 
It  was  these  little  human  touches  that  became  a 
constant  source  of  heart-to-heart  discussion  in  the 
early  days  of  the  war;  but  they  failed  to  improve 
the  temper  of  the  conservative-minded  dug-out. 

Seppy,  being  connected  with  a  well-known  ducal 
family,  naturally  received  a  staff  appointment, 
and  was  sent  overseas  in  the  autumn  of  1914. 
He  got  no  nearer  to  the  fighting  line  than  Rouen, 
but  he  enjoyed  writing  to  Amelia  letters  marked 
"On  Active  Service,"  and  when  he  drew  the  lucky 
number  that  gave  him  a  D.S.O.  his  triumph  was 
complete.  When  he  returned  to  England,  on  the 
recommendation  of  the  commander-in-chief,  he  re- 


144  THREADS 

ceived  an  important  appointment  in  the  Censor- 
ship Department,  where  he  had  since  remained. 

He  was  a  good-humored,  fussy,  rather  old- 
maidish  person,  always  very  pleased  with  himself 
and  the  world  in  general,  inclined  to  be  senti- 
mental, fond  of  good-fellowship,  and  quite  at 
home  in  any  company.  He  was  spoken  of  as 
"Seppy"  even  by  men  who  had  never  met  him; 
he  considered  it  a  slight  to  be  called  anything  else 
by  those  who  had. 

He  was  very  much  at  home  at  Chalfont; 
Amelia  encouraged  him  to  come  often,  and  the 
young  people  accepted  him  as  a  child  accepts  the 
presence  of  the  gardener,  the  chauffeur,  and  other 
ignorant  grown-ups  who  are  constantly  saying 
"Don't!" 

John  heard  a  genial,  rather  staccato,  well-bred 
voice  asking  if  anyone  were  at  home.  "My  hated 
rival,"  he  chuckled. 

Seppy  came  in  through  the  French  windows 
that  led  into  the  garden.  "Oh,  excuse  me !"  he 
cried,  on  catching  sight  of  John.  "Is  Mrs.  Os- 
borne  in  ?" 

"She  has  gone  to  church,"  explained  John,  ad- 
miring the  cut  of  Seppy's  breeches  and  wondering 
whether  he  should  ask  for  the  name  of  the  maker. 

"She  must  have  gone  across  the  fields,"  said 
Seppy;  "I  came  by  the  road.  Perhaps  she  will 
only  stay  to  matins,"  he  added  hopefully,  throw- 


THREADS  145 

ing  himself  into  an  easy  chair  and  loosening  his 
belt.  "I  shall  wait." 

He  looked  round  the  room.  "Where  are  the 
young  people?"  he  inquired.  "They  shouldn't 
have  left  their  visitor  to  amuse  himself.  I  must 
speak  to  them  about  it." 

John  chuckled.  His  visitor  was  obviously  a 
man  thoroughly  confident  regarding  his  position 
in  the  household.  Such  confidence  would  eventu- 
ally have  to  be  destroyed;  but  self-destruction 
would,  under  the  circumstances,  be  more  in  keep- 
ing with  the  laws  of  hospitality.  He  would  give 
Seppy  plenty  of  rope. 

"May  I  offer  you  a  cigarette?"  inquired  Seppy. 
"I  keep  a  box  or  two  down  here,  as  a  rule.  I  am 
a  frequent  visitor,  and  am  accustomed  to  making 
myself  at  home." 

"I  gathered  that,"  said  John. 

Seppy  discovered  a  box  of  cigarettes  hidden 
underneath  the  current  number  of  the  Bystander 
and  offered  one  to  his  companion.  They  lighted 
their  cigarettes  from  the  same  match.  Seppy  had 
rarely  been  in  greater  peril;  but  John  possessed 
plenty  of  self-control,  and  refrained  from  yielding 
to  a  sudden  impulse  to  fall  upon  his  rival,  tooth 
and  nail. 

Seppy,  sublimely  unconscious  of  danger, 
rambled  on,  making  polite  conversation.  He  was 
an  amazingly  adequate  purveyor  of  small-talk, 


i46  THREADS 

probably  from  enjoying  so  regularly  the  society 
of  the  opposite  sex. 

From  the  weather  to  the  war  was  but  a  step, 
and  from  the  war  in  general  to  coming  eventu- 
alities in  particular  a  natural  development.  Be- 
ing in  the  censor's  department,  Seppy  was  some- 
what of  an  authority  on  the  plans  of  the  Army 
Council.  He  was  an  inveterate  spreader  of 
rumors,  and  mentioned  the  possibility  of  a  second 
occupation  of  Gallipoli — though  he  scarcely  real- 
ized the  irony  of  using  the  word  "occupation." 
A  flea  on  a  dog's  back,  in  momentary  danger  of 
being  scratched  off,  might  almost  as  truthfully  be 
chronicled  as  occupying  the  dog. 

"It  must  be  very  wearing  to  be  the  recipient 
of  such  weighty  secrets,"  said  John.  "I  heard 
a  man  on  the  train  say  that  the  General  Staff 
double-locks  the  doors  and  stuffs  the  telephone 
with  cotton-wool,  but  invariably  forgets  to  burn 
the  contents  of  the  waste-paper  basket;  which  ex- 
plains the  origin  of  rumors,  most  of  which  are 
based  on  the  charwoman  who  empties  it,  and  have 
their  refilling-point  at  the  service  clubs  usually  fre- 
quented by  elderly  dug-cuts." 

"One  has  heard  that  the  wives  of  Cabinet 
Ministers  are  occasionally  indiscreet,"  replied 
Seppy  meditatively. 

Seppy  was  a  victim  to  that  most  objectionable 
of  all  the  lesser  vices — curiosity.  He  was  anxious 


THREADS  147 

to  place  John,  to  know  his  position  in  the  world, 
his  status  in  the  household.  A  remark  concern- 
ing the  charm  of  the  house  and  garden,  and  a  few 
words  in  praise  of  Amelia  and  her  children,  led 
to  further  efforts. 

"They  are  old  friends  of  yours,  I  understand?" 
suggested  Seppy. 

"Quite!"  replied  John,  smiling  reminiscently. 

Seppy  was  too  well-bred  to  allow  his  curiosity  to 
get  the  upper  hand;  but  he  was  a  little  puzzled 
and  slightly  annoyed  by  John's  unresponsiveness. 
He  glanced  at  his  companion's  clothes,  and  was 
a  trifle  shocked  to  notice  how  old-fashioned  and 
out  of  date  they  were.  "You  Ve  been  away?"  he 
inquired. 

John  nodded. 

"That  accounts  for  my  not  having  met  you  be- 
fore," continued  Seppy,  rather  pleased  with  his 
own  powers  of  deduction.  "May  I  inquire  your 
name?" 

John  conceded  the  point. 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  my  dear  Wynn !"  He  rose 
and  shook  hands.  "I  am  Colonel  Packinder,"  he 
added. 

John,  rather  to  his  own  annoyance,  could  not 
help  liking  the  gallant  colonel;  there  was  some- 
thing delightfully  simple  and  frank  in  his  manner, 
and  in  his  ready  acceptance  of  John's  presence. 
There  was  none  of  that  constitutional  distrust  of 


;i48  THREADS 

a  stranger  so  frequently  apparent  even  among 
people  who  have  traveled.  If  Seppy  desired  to  be 
something  more  than  a  mere  friend  of  the  family, 
such  an  ambition  was  natural  and  even  excusable 
i — under  the  circumstances. 

John  always  saw  the  other  man's  point  of  view 
before  insisting  on  his  own.  Such  a  gift  does 
not  usually  lead  to  advancement  or  speedy  suc- 
cess, but  it  makes  a  man  distinctly  easier  to  live 
with. 

"Did  you  know  the  late  Mr.  Osborne?"  in- 
quired Seppy,  after  a  slight  pause  in  the  conversa- 
tion— a  conversation  that  bore  more  resemblance 
to  a  monologue. 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  John,    "Who  was  he  ?" 

Like  most  men  with  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  he 
was  apt  to  be  irritated,  even  exasperated,  by  little 
things;  and  the  idea  of  Amelia  changing  her  name 
had  stimulated  that  somewhat  inexcusable  weak- 
ness. 

The  man  who  realizes  that  life  is  more  or  less 
of  a  grim  ironic  joke  has  occasional  moments  when 
he  wonders  why  tragedy  so  often  lurks  under  the 
skirts  of  comedy;  until  he  comes  to  the  conclusion 
that  comedy  is  tragedy  without  dignity,  and 
tragedy  is  nothing  but  comedy  taken  seriously. 

"She  very  rarely  mentions  him,"  continued 
Seppy  reflectively.  "I  have  sometimes  wondered 


THREADS  149 

what  kind  of  man  he  was,  and  whether  Arthur 
resembles  him  in  any  way." 

John  looked  up. 

"I  should  not  care  to  be  seen  in  civilian  clothes 
— at  Arthur's  age,"  said  Seppy. 

John,  who  was  suffering  from  the  same  kind  of 
prejudice,  turned  the  conversation.  "You  must 
have  seen  a  lot  of  service?"  he  suggested,  after 
glancing  at  the  row  of  ribbons  on  Seppy's  breast. 

Seppy  had  seen  the  Boer  War  through  at 
Southampton  Docks,  and  the  Sudan  Campaign  at 
Cairo.  In  fact,  he  could  claim  to  have  seen  ser- 
vice in  seven  campaigns  without  having  heard  a 
shot  fired.  He  was  one  of  those  soldiers  fated 
to  hold  the  pen  rather  than  the  sword.  When 
placed  in  an  office,  surrounded  by  a  few  clerks,  a 
pile  of  buff  slips,  and  a  bundle  of  red  tape,  he  was 
thoroughly  at  home.  On  one  occasion  he  had 
been  known  to  send  a  neatly  pinned  file  of  trades- 
men's accounts  to  his  bank  in  London  with  the 
magic  words  "Passed  to  you  for  necessary  action, 
please !"  scrawled  across  it. 

The  faint  hum  of  an  airplane  obtruded  itself 
on  the  summer  stillness. 

"What  the  devil 's  that?"  asked  John. 

"Only  an  airplane,"  replied  Seppy,  with  a 
puzzled  glance  at  his  companion. 

"Where  ?    I  should  like  to  see  it  1    I  've  never 


150  THREADS 

seen  one,"  said  John,  rising  quickly  and  going  to 
the  window. 

This  was  a  facer  for  Seppy.  Surely  there  could 
scarcely  be  a  man  living  who  had  never  seen  an 
airplane  ?  Where  on  earth  could  the  fellow  have 
been  these  last  few  years? 

He  followed  John  to  the  window,  and  out  on 
the  terrace.  "There  it  is!  Look!"  he  cried, 
pointing  toward  the  London  haze. 

"What  a  beautiful  sight!"  cried  John  in  some 
excitement,  as  he  watched  the  bird-like  machine 
that  was  flying  from  the  northeast  toward  the 
southwest  at  the  height  of  a  little  below  ten  thou- 
sand feet. 

"I  fancy  that  fellow  's  a  German  who  is  going 
to  drop  a  bomb  or  two  on  London,"  remarked 
Seppy  casually.  "Fritz  thinks  we  spend  all  our 
week-ends  out  of  town." 

John  was  amazed.  Colonel  Packinder  ap- 
peared to  take  the  matter  very  coolly. 

The  British  people  as  a  nation  took  the  matter 
fairly  coolly.  The  British  newspapers  had  told 
the  Boche  frankly  their  opinion  of  his  antics  in 
the  air,  but  Jerry  was  always  thick-skinned.  Even 
a  leading  article  in  the  Daily  Mail,  inspired  by 
Lord  Northcliffe  himself,  had  had  very  little 
effect.  So  the  British  people,  having  entered  a 
protest  in  the  national  organ  of  opinion,  settled 
down  philosophically  to  its  customary  routine* 


THREADS  151 

Raids  by  airplanes,  bombs  dropped  by  Zeppelins, 
bombardments  on  east-coast  towns  by  the  German 
fleet  were  unsportsmanlike ;  but  they  were  merely 
another  proof  of  Teutonic  insensibility  to  any 
decent  instincts. 

There  was  a  report  of  a  distant  explosion. 
The  airplane  rose  hurriedly  and  flew  away 
towards  the  southeast. 

"I  thought  so,"  exclaimed  Seppy,  unperturbed. 
"It  was  a  Boche.  I  expect  he  was  trying  to  hit 
Queen  Charlotte's  Hospital.  Will  you  have 
another  cigarette?" 

John  turned  and  faced  Seppy,  his  voice  quiver- 
ing with  indignation.  "Good  Lord,  sir  1"  he  cried. 
"They  are  dropping  bombs  on  London!  It's 
an  insult  I  Why  do  we  allow  it?" 

"The  Boche  will  always  be  a  bounder,"  replied 
Seppy  reassuringly. 

"How  dare  he  bound  in  our  sky?"  protested 
John,  with  some  heat.  "Do  you  think  they  would 
give  me  a  commission  5f  I  dyed  my  hair?" 

"I  '11  see  what  can  be  done,"  replied  Seppy. 
"Where  have  you  been  and  what  have  you  been 
doing  these  last  few  years?" 

John  was  striding  furiously  up  and  down  the 
terrace;  he  was  thoroughly  roused  at  last. 
"Damn  their  impertinence !  Dropping  bombs  on 
London!"  he  muttered.  "I  feel  as  though  some- 
one had  been  defiling  the  tombs  of  my  ancestors !" 


152  THREADS 

Then  he  apologized  for  ignoring  Seppy' s  question. 
"You  want  to  know  how  I  Ve  spent  the  last  few 
years?  I've  been  picking  oakum  and  breaking 
stones." 

Seppy  stiffened  perceptibly.  "Would  you  mind 
being  a  little  more  definite?"  he  inquired.  He 
had  become  in  a  moment  the  Colonel  of  the 
orderly-room. 

"I  Ve  been  in  prison  for  the  last  fifteen  years 
— at  Portland,"  said  John.  He  hated  explaining 
things;  he  preferred  merely  to  state  a  fact  and 
to  leave  it  to  prove  itself.  He  never  offered  an 
excuse  or  asked  for  one.  Like  most  imaginative 
men,  he  had  a  profound  reverence  for  facts. 
Facts,  like  history,  were  frequently  unreliable,  but 
extremely  useful  as  a  basis  for  argument. 

"I  don't  recommend  it  as  a  health  resort,"  con- 
tinued John  with  some  heat.  "But,  damn  it  all ! 
I  want  to  have  a  shot  at  those  Germans  !" 

"When  did  you  leave  Portland?"  inquired 
Seppy,  frowning. 

"Yesterday!"  John  continued  his  perambula- 
tion of  the  terrace,  snapping  out  his  remarks  like 
a  machine-gun.  "They  let  me  out  because  I  had 
been  sent  there  in  error.  They  Ve  apologized — 
that  is  to  say  they  Ve  pardoned  me  for  living  at 
their  expense  for  fifteen  years  when  I  had  done 
nothing  to  deserve  it.  But,  damn  it,  man!  Sup- 


THREADS  153 

pose  they  hit  Westminster  Abbey?  It 's  too  near 
the  House  of  Commons  to  be  safe  I" 

John  did  not  yet  realize  that  the  House  of 
Commons  was  the  last  place  Brother  Boche  de- 
sired to  destroy;  in  the  past  it  had  been  his 
greatest  friend,  and  in  the  future  would  probably 
return  to  its  allegiance. 

"Is  Mrs.  Osborne  aware  of  how  you  have  spent 
the  last  fifteen  years?"  inquired  Seppy,  on  his 
return  to  the  living-room. 

John  was  exasperated  to  rudeness.  "Of  course 
she  is !"  he  snapped.  "She  's  my  wife !" 

Seppy  stared;  then  his  assurance  crumbled  like 
a  house  of  toy  bricks.  He  sat  down,  and  tried 
to  face  his  companion  without  flinching.  He  had 
to  swallow  once  or  twice  before  he  could  articu- 
late distinctly.  "Your  wife?"  he  gasped. 

John  chuckled,  then  checked  and  looked  at  his 
rival  sympathetically.  He  suddenly  realized  that 
Amelia  was  supposed  to  be  a  widow,  and  that 
Seppy  was  probably  suffering  from  a  considerable 
shock — through  no  fault  of  his  own.  If  anyone 
was  to  blame,  it  was  Amelia ;  and  yet,  how  could 
she  be  blamed  for  holding  her  tongue  concerning 
such  a  vital  matter? 

"But  your  name  is  Wynn  and  hers  is  Osborne  ?" 
protested  Seppy.  There  was  a  certain  feminine 
quality  in  him  that  refused  to  accept  facts  even 
when  they  were  undeniable:  that  touch  of  the 


154  THREADS 

illogical,  so  charming  in  a  young  girl,  so  irritating 
in  an  old  woman. 

John,  against  his  will,  was  forced  to  explain 
the  situation.  Seppy  was  too  much  of  an  egotist 
to  realize  another  man's  tragedy.  He  saw  the 
tangle  only  from  his  own  point  of  view,  and  his 
mind  registered  a  protest  against  accepting  the 
situation.  He  possessed  the  cardinal  virtue  of 
never  knowing  when  he  was  beaten;  it  was  that 
curious  British  quality,  possibly  due  to  dogged- 
ness,  perhaps  to  egotism,  that  has  made  the 
British  nation  what  it  is.  Seppy  was  a  philosopher 
where  other  people's  troubles  were  concerned;  but 
his  present  blow  had  temporarily  exposed  his  re- 
serves of  philosophy  to  the  four  winds. 

The  British  are  a  philosophical  people ;  that  is 
to  say,  they  accept  a  thing  provided  it  is  repeated 
often  enough  for  them  to  get  used  to  it.  But 
nothing  is  more  irritating  to  British  self-com- 
placence than  to  find  an  Englishman  behaving  or 
thinking  differently  from  the  majority  of  his  kind. 
John's  attitude  was  beginning  to  irritate  Seppy 
considerably. 

"If  you  ever  get  sent  to  prison  for  life,"  said 
John,  after  concluding  his  recital  of  the  facts  that 
led  to  his  incarceration,  "and  they  let  you  out  un- 
expectedly, don't  come  back  to  your  family!  It 
only  upsets  their  plans  and  causes  a  lot  of  em- 
barrassment." 


THREADS  155 

John  gazed  out  of  the  window,  his  thoughts 
playing  havoc  with  his  philosophical  attitude.  He 
was  suffering  from  one  of  his  moments  of  ex- 
asperated rebellion  against  the  stupidity  of  his 
fellow-creatures  and  of  circumstances.  He  was 
thinking  of  Amelia,  and  of  his  children;  and  he 
was  feeling  curiously  alone  in  the  world. 

Seppy,  as  usual,  was  thinking  of  himself.  To 
squire  an  attractive  woman,  to  be  useful  to  her, 
and  to  give  her  a  great  deal  of  time  and  atten- 
tion, is  frequently  a  form  of  self-indulgence  in  a 
certain  type  of  man.  To  give  a  great  deal,  and 
to  ask  nothing  in  return,  does  not  always  imply 
unselfishness;  it  sometimes  means  that  the  desire 
to  consecrate  a  grand  passion  is  entirely  outside 
a  certain  individual's  limitations,  that  he  is  con- 
tent to  fetch  and  carry,  to  have  a  cloak  to  hold,  a 
hand  to  kiss;  and  that  he  has  neither  capacity  nor 
ambition  for  any  further  proof  of  devotion.  It 
is  another  form  of  egotism — the  dislike  of  the 
individual  for  sinking  his  own  individuality  in  that 
of  another  human  being. 

"I  must  admit  that  I  resent  your  coming  back 
and  upsetting  all  our  plans!"  exclaimed  Seppy 
after  a  long  pause. 

John  looked  at  him;  he  rather  admired  the 
man's  frankness,  though  a  little  shocked  by  the 
egotism. 

"It  is  n't  cricket !"  added  Seppy  severely. 


156  THREADS 

This  was  egotism  on  the  grand  scale.  Seppy 
had  been  perfectly  contented  with  things  as  they 
were.  Amelia  had  been  contented,  too— at  least, 
so  Seppy  fondly  believed.  She  was  beginning  to 
grow  fond  of  him;  her  children  had  accepted  him 
as  a  kind  of  permanent  institution.  But  John's 
unexpected  return  had  altered  the  whole  aspect  of 
things.  Ft  had  upset  Seppy  terribly,  and  it  must 
have  upset  Amelia  even  more.  Their  scheme  of 
life  would  have  to  be  reorganized  on  a  new  basis. 
Seppy's  point  of  view  was,  in  his  own  opinion, 
that  of  any  reasonable  Englishman  who  disliked 
having  any  of  his  manners  and  customs  interfered 
with.  That  his  attitude  might  be  considered  to 
be  revoltingly  selfish  never  occurred  to  him — he 
was  so  sure  of  his  own  importance,  so  conscious 
of  his  own  rectitude.  They  had  all  grown  accus- 
tomed to  the  situation;  had  accepted  it,  and 
were  prepared  to  let  it  go  on  indefinitely.  That 
John  might  not  care  to  have  it  going  on  indefi- 
nitely was  a  matter  that  did  not  concern  Seppy. 
How  could  the  fellow  expect  to  take  things  up 
exactly  as  he  had  left  them  fifteen  years  before  ? 
A  lot  could  happen  in  fifteen  years.  People 
altered,  ideas  altered,  affections  altered;  one 
looked  at  life  through  different  glasses.  He,  for 
one,  would  refuse  to  be  turned  out  of  his  com- 
fortable niche  in  such  a  charming  household. 

John  had  decided  that  Seppy  would  have  to  go ; 


THREADS  157 

but,  for  Amelia's  sake,  the  departure  would  have 
to  be  very  carefully  arranged.  He  had  no  desire 
to  present  Seppy  with  a  martyr's  crown.  Women 
had  an  instinctive  sympathy  for  the  under  dog; 
and  when  the  animal  in  question  had  been  ex- 
tremely useful  and  amazingly  devoted,  its  exit 
must  not  be  accompanied  by  slow  music  of  the 
pathetic  order;  for,  however  much  a  woman 
might  admire  and  respect  the  strong,  firm  hand 
of  authority  in  a  husband,  the  good  deeds  of  the 
lover  might  be  apt  to  come  up  for  comparison  in 
future  conversations.  John's  idea  of  allowing 
Seppy  to  destroy  himself  and  his  own  chances, 
though  possibly  a  longer  process,  was  infinitely 
more  politic.  In  dealing  with  a  woman,  a  man 
must  never  forget  her  sex.  Seppy's  frankness, 
whether  it  arose  from  honesty  or  from  a  total 
disregard  of  other  people's  feelings  where  his  own 
were  concerned,  could  be  trusted  to  assist  John's 
scheme,  if  given  plenty  of  opportunity  to  express 
itself.  Seppy  would  plead  for  himself — which 
would  annoy  Amelia ;  John  would  remain  neutral 
— which  would  stimulate  her  to  force  his  hand 
and  to  make  him  declare  himself.  As  a  nation  of 
individualists,  eacn  must  play  his  own  hand. 

The  old  religions  talked  of  brotherhood,  and 
exalted  the  individual.  The  new  religions  had 
been  adjusted  to  pay  tribute  to  the  worship  of 
the  ega  "Stopl  Look!  Listen!  This  means 


158  THREADS 

you!  Is  your  soul  paying  good  interest?  If  not, 
let  us  attend  to  it  (at  half  our  usual  rates,  by 
quoting  this  advertisement!)  and  we  will  guar- 
antee heaven,  or  your  money  will  be  returned!" 
was  a  type  of  propaganda  that  had  become  ex- 
traordinarily popular.  Converts  were  told  that 
a  calmly  balanced  mind  was  a  necessity;  but  it 
was  impossible  to  maintain  a  calmly  balanced 
mind  unless  one  concentrated  entirely  on  one's 
own  desires.  "I  have  only  enough  for  myself," 
was  a  popular  cry — whether  it  concerned  money, 
sympathy,  or  fruit  and  vegetables  for  wounded 
soldiers.  Doing  good  in  secret  was  a  rare  eccen- 
tricity; good  deeds  were  reported  in  the  news- 
papers— in  large  type.  Advertisement  was  the 
order  of  the  day.  Even  the  War  Office  had  to 
bow  to  the  popular  demand,  and  to  concede  the 
gold  stripe  for  wounds,  the  chevron  for  service 
overseas.  The  women  were  wonderful,  but  their 
penchant  for  being  photographed  as  Red  Cross 
nurses,  smoothing  the  brows  of  wounded  soldiers, 
had  become  almost  a  disease.  Even  a  walk  in 
Hyde  Park  had  to  be  chronicled  in  the  simple 
touching  style  of  the  superannuated  Duchess,  or 
her  maid,  who  writes  the  Social  Notes  in  a  popu- 
lar illustrated  morning  journal — a  page  known 
to  the  army  as  "Snoblets  for  Snobs  1" 

People  had  begun  to  advertise  at  the  time  when 
John  had  been  forced  to  retire  from  social  life; 


THREADS  159 

now  everyone  advertised.  They  were  beating  the 
drum  as  hard  as  they  could  whack  it.  Popular 
actors  on  home  service  in  London,  music-hall  man- 
agers in  staff  tabs,  music-hall  comedians  organiz- 
ing charity  performances,  bishops  and  popular 
novelists  visiting  the  front,  politicians  advising 
the  nation,  war  experts  forecasting  eventualities 
that  failed  to  materialize — types  and  persons  by 
the  thousand  sought  publicity,  and  got  it.  The 
whole  world  appeared  to  be  suffering  from  a 
disease  that  might  be  called  "look-at-me-itis." 
And  "over  there"  men  laughed  and  fought  and 
died;  and  on  the  gray  North  Sea  men  kept  watch 
and  ward,  and  felt  ashamed  of  their  countrymen. 
And  in  the  munition  factories  men  and  women 
ruined  their  health,  their  hands,  their  faces, 
slaving  to  keep  up  the  supply  so  that  the  "boys" 
should  not  again  complain  of  having  no  shells. 
Indeed,  the  British  nation  was  a  crazy  mixture  of 
motives,  peoples,  and  ideals;  and  the  systematic 
Boche,  who  tried  to  classify  its  citizens,  wrapped 
cold  towels  round  his  head  and  sank  exasperated 
into  singing  hymns  of  hate — a  thing  that  im- 
mensely tickled  the  national  sense  of  humor. 

We  were  a  democracy;  and  the  more  demo- 
cratic we  grew,  the  more  honors  and  titles  we 
seemed  to  demand.  John  had  always  considered 
honors  and  titles  to  be  a  cheap  form  of  lagniappe; 
their  cost  was  trifling  compared  with  the  pleasure 


160  THREADS 

given  to  the  recipient.  He  was  as  yet  unaware 
of  the  movement  to  establish  a  new  order  for 
children  under  sixteen — to  encourage  the  birth- 
rate. 

John  appreciated  Seppy's  frankness  in  throw- 
ing down  the  gauntlet,  and  he  was  wondering 
whether  Amelia  would  do  the  same.  Had  any 
member  of  his  family  altered  his  or  her  custom 
on  account  of  the  return  of  the  nominal  head  of 
the  household?  It  was  his  first  morning  at  home. 
Where  was  his  wife?  She  had  gone  to  church. 
Where  was  his  daughter?  She  had  gone  motor- 
ing. His  sons  were  following  their  usual  Sunday 
avocations  just  as  though  their  father  were  not 
there.  If  he  had  asked  them  to  stay,  to  keep  him 
company,  would  they  have  stayed?  Would  they 
have  been  irritated  at  having  their  routine  upset? 
Did  that  imply  egotism  gone  to  seed?  Had  peo- 
ple grown  into  the  habit  of  talking  about  them- 
selves to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  interest? 
Would  he  be  forced  to  join  the  majority  and  to 
talk  about  himself?  For  fifteen  years  he  had  not 
had  the  chance.  They  had  been  talking  of  them- 
selves, and  of  nothing  else,  for  fifteen  years.  If 
he  wished  to  find  out  the  truth  about  things,  and 
started  asking  questions,  he  would  probably  be 
considered  a  nuisance.  People  who  took  life 
seriously  were  rarely  popular,  especially  those  who 
had  the  ability  to  laugh  at  themselves.  People 


THREADS  161 

appeared  to  do  things  because  they  wanted  to 
do  them,  and  most  of  them  were  accomplished 
casuists  in  justifying  their  own  point  of  view. 

Was  he  acquiring  rather  a  distorted  panorama 
of  humanity  in  general?  Was  he  seeing  a  little 
too  clearly?  Would  plain  facts,  without  any 
treacle,  prove  to  be  caviar  to  the  general?  The 
public  had  always  loved  treacle  both  in  its  politics 
and  in  its  amusements;  the  newspaper  that  turned 
off  the  treacle  tap  and  substituted  quinine  usually 
lost  a  number  of  its  regular  subscribers.  The 
writer  who  mixed  no  treacle  with  his  ink  usually 
repented  of  his  experiment.  The  popular  man 
had  always  been  the  man  who  took  life  as  he 
found  it,  and  questioned  nothing.  The  critic  of 
life  and  manners  is  the  ghost  at  the  banquet. 

He  had  lived  for  this  home-coming,  longed  for 
it,  dreamed  of  it  through  all  those  deadly,  bitter 
years  of  loneliness;  and  now  his  mind  was  per- 
plexed and  his  ideas  were  crumbling.  Had  he 
already  enjoyed  the  ideal  home-coming — in  his 
dreams?  and  was  he  now  getting  the  real  thing? 
No;  if  he  believed  that  he  would — well !  he  would 
kill  Seppy,  and  get  sent  back  to  Portland  for  good. 

He  laughed  grimly.  If  he  were  to  kill  a  staff 
officer,  it  would  be  creating  a  precedent.  He 
mentioned  the  idea  to  Seppy. 

"I  would  tell  them  you  were  making  love  to 


1 62  THREADS 

my  wife.  Even  the  privileges  of  a  staff  officer 
have  their  limitations." 

"I  have  been  making  love  to  your  wife  for 
twelve  years,"  replied  Seppy.  "It  has  become  a 
habit  almost  impossible  to  eradicate." 

"Do  you  usually  stay  to  lunch  on  Sundays?" 
inquired  John. 

"Invariably,"  replied  Seppy. 

"Then  you  must  stay  to  lunch  to-day !  I  '11 
fight  you  fairly  for  my  wife's  affections,  and  I 
shall  expect  to  see  quite  a  lot  of  you  in  the  future," 
announced  John,  whose  sense  of  irony  rarely  in- 
terfered with  his  sense  of  hospitality. 

There  is  nothing  so  disconcerting  as  the  truth 
in  its  naked  state — so  many  people  wrap  it  up, 
or  mold  it  according  to  their  fancies,  or  use  por- 
tions of  it  to  camouflage  their  policies.  John,  by 
his  use  of  direct  methods,  completely  upset 
Seppy's  preconceived  ideas  regarding  John's  pos- 
sible behavior.  Seppy  began  to  lose  his  nerve. 
He  fidgeted,  hesitated  in  conversation,  and  finally 
beat  a  retreat,  excusing  himself  on  the  grounds  of 
meeting  Amelia  and  escorting  her  home  from 
church. 

John  laughed;  it  was  one  up  to  him  in  the  great 
game.  He  would  give  them  every  opportunity, 
while  he  himself  would  remain  in  the  background. 
He  would  never  play  the  jealous  husband;  the 
part  was  scarcely  in  his  line.  Jealous  husbands 


THREADS  163 

invariably  made  fools  of  themselves.  He  recalled 
an  anecdote  told  him  by  a  traveling  American  on 
a  Channel  crossing — a  long,  lean,  solemn-faced 
Westerner  with  a  monotonously  droning  voice, 
who  never  once  smiled  or  stopped  chewing  his 
cigar. 

"Talking  of  jealousy,"  began  his  companion 
'(they  had  not  been  talking  of  jealousy,  as  it 
happened,  but  your  consistent  story-teller  is  never 
at  a  loss  for  an  opening),  "talking  of  jealousy, 
did  you  ever  hear  of  a  guy  called  Tooley  Mond? 
No?  Well,  I  'm  telling  you.  There  was  a  feller 
named  Stockey,  Ezra  H.  Stockey,  of  Smithville, 
Arizona.  He  struck  it  rich,  sudden-like,  and 
married.  The  dollars  started  pouring  in,  and 
Mrs.  Stockey  had  ambitions.  Ezra  had  n't  re- 
ceived any  education  to  write  home  about,  but 
Mrs.  Stockey  read  the  society  pages  of  the  Sunday 
supplement  and  courted  a  palace  on  Fifth  Avenoo. 
Well,  sir !  Stockey  grew  so  rich  he  could  n't  count 
how  much  he  had,  and  Mrs.  Stockey  was  a  darned 
pretty  woman,  and  knew  it,  and  wanted  other 
folks  to  know  it.  So  she  hitched  up  the  team  and 
make  tracks  for  N'york.  Ezra  followed  a  few 
months  later,  and  found  the  madam  ensconced 
in  a  hundred-dollar-a-day  suite  at  the  Waldorf- 
Astoria,  going  some  in  the  entertaining  line.  She 
and  Ezra  had  never  had  no  words,  barring  an 
argument  as  to  whether  the  first  child  should  be 


1 64  THREADS 

called  Theodore  or  William  Jennings;  but  they 
compromised  by  calling  it  Muriel.  Muriel  had  a 
French  bong  and  a  whole  suite  to  herself.  Mrs. 
Ezra  was  out  for  booty,  and  she  raked  in  one  or 
two  ginks  who  'd  hit  the  hard-up  trail  and  a 
British  Bart.  Yes,  sir!  The  sort  of  guy  that 
added  'Bart'  after  his  name  in  the  register  as  you 
or  I  'd  say  John  Smith,  Keokuk.  Anyway,  Bart 
seemed  to  be  some  city,  for  he  'd  the  run  of  Fifth 
Avenoo,  and  introduced  Mrs.  Ezra  to  heaps  of 
his  friends.  Ezra  bought  himself  a  tail  coat  and 
a  boiled  shirt  and  the  kind  of  hat  that  says 
'Cuckoo !'  after  you  Ve  sat  on  it,  and  went  into 
society.  Yes,  sir-ee !  He  went  into  society  for 
one  night  only.  Next  morning  he  gave  his  glad 
rags  to  the  waiter,  and  told  Mrs.  Ezra  she  could 
please  herself  but  had  better  count  him  out;  he  'd 
stood  by  the  cloak-room  all  the  evening,  won- 
derin'  when  it  would  be  time  to  go  home,  and  his 
collar  hurt  him  mighty  bad,  and  all  the  guys  who 
left  their  coats  tipped  him  half  a  dollar,  and  he 
did  n't  know  why,  and  the  genu-wine  cloak-room 
page  got  mad  and  wanted  to  fight  him,  and  the 
only  drink  he  got  was  served  in  a  glass  the 
size  of  a  pigeon's  egg,  and  when  he  asked  for  a 
tumblerful  the  waiter  looked  as  if  he  were  goin' 
to  faint;  so  Ezra  hit  the  Rathskellar  trail  nights 
and  Mrs.  Ezra  enjoyed  herself.  And  everything 
was  lovely.  Every  morning  Ezra  asked  her  was 


THREADS  165 

it  lots  of  fun  and  who  was  there  ?  (His  visit  was 
timed  after  she  'd  interviewed  her  secretary,  her 
manicurist,  the  head  waiter,  and  the  French  bong. 
She  always  spoke  French  to  the  bong.)  'Tooley 
Mond,'  said  Mrs.  Ezra.  That's  all  right,'  said 
Ezra.  Go  on  havin'  a  good  time.' 

"But  Ezra  began  to  grow  pale  and  sort  o* 
thinner.  He  'd  sit  in  a  corner  of  the  smoking- 
room  just  starin'  at  the  tellesated  pavement — you 
know,  all  patterns,  trippy  sort  o'  patterns — and 
chewin'  on  his  cigar  and  lokin'  savage.  Fellers 
asked  him  what  was  wrong?  He  just  looked  at 
'em,  and  they  steered  for  the  bar,  watchin'  his  hip 
pocket.  Mrs.  Ezra  was  puzzled,  but  she  did  n't 
stay  home  and  nurse  him.  One  mornin'  she  told 
him  she  was  goin'  over  to  Long  Island  for  a 
week's-end  visit.  Ezra  hit  the  cuspidor  at  five 
yards,  and  inquired:  'Will  Tooley  Mond  be 
there?'  'Of  course — slava  sondere'  some  dago 
expression  she  used.  Ezra  found  out  whose  house 
it  was,  and  told  her  good-by.  He  looked  up  the 
ad-dress  in  the  telephone  guide,  bought  a  dandy 
automatic  and  plenty  cartridges,  hired  an  automo- 
bile, and  took  several  drinks.  He  left  the  Wal- 
dorf by  the  33d  Street  entrance  at  10  p.m., 
crossed  over  by  the  ferry,  and  beat  it  over  to 
somewhere  in  the  direction  of  Oyster  Bay. 

"He  found  the  house  with  a  half-mile  drive 
from  the  gate  to  the  door,  gave  a  bit  of  lagniappe 


1 66  THREADS 

to  locate  his  wife's  room,  and  at  2  a.m.,  when  all 
was  as  quiet  as  a  Boston  culture  club,  he  shinned 
up  the  porch  pillars  and  got  on  to  the  upper 
gallery.  He  opened  the  window  of  his  wife's 
bedroom  very  quietly,  hitched  himself  inside, 
closed  it,  and  turned  on  the  lights.  She  woke  up 
and  let  out  a  yell.  'Forget  it!'  said  Ezra. 
'Where's  Tooley  Mond?'  'Where's  who?' 
asked  Mrs.  Ezra.  'Tooley  Mond!'  replied  Ezra, 
searchin'  the  room  and  under  the  bed,  his  auto- 
matic ready  to  his  hand.  'Are  you  mad?'  asked 
Mrs.  Ezra.  'I  want  to  tell  you  that  this  same 
Tooley  Mond  has  got  my  goat.  He  makes  me 
tired,  and  I  'm  going  to  blow  his  head  off ! 
Wherever  you  go,  he  goes  I  Wherever  you  are, 
he  is!  And  you  accept  his  presence  as  a  matter 
of  course.  Every  time  I  Ve  gone  to  your  room 
and  asked  you  who  was  there,  did  you  hand  me 
a  list  of  guests?  Why,  no!  There  was  just  one 
man  there  that  mattered — Tooley  Mond.  You 
never  gave  a  thought  to  no  one  else.  Tooley 
Mond  filled  the  bill.  I  was  just  your  husband — a 
darned  son-of-a-gun  that  'd  got  rich  quick  and 
would  n't  wear  no  stick-up  collars.  Our  little 
Muriel  was  left  to  that  French  bong  whose  vo- 
cabulary may  be  distinguished,  but  she  never  says 
nothing  to  me  but  'Oh,  Mossoo!'  And  now 
you  Ve  come  here  to  spend  this  week's-end,  and 
Tooley  Mond's  here  too,  and  I  'm  goin'  to  slap 


THREADS  167 

his  face  good  and  hard  and  drill  holes  in  his  shirt- 
front,  so  hand  him  out  pronto !'  He  gave  a  glance 
at  Mrs.  Ezra,  who  was  having  hysted-derricks 
on  the  bed.  'I  won't  hurt  you,'  he  said;  'but 
Tooley  Mond  's  as  good  as  buried/  'Sit  down,' 
said  Mrs.  Ezra;  'sit  down  and  kiss  me,  you 
darned  old  galoot' — or  whatever  terms  of  endear- 
ment a  woman  uses  to  her  husband.  Not  bein' 
married,  I  can't  give  'em  exact.  'Listen  to  me,' 
she  says.  'Jooley,  the  French  bong/  she  says, 
'has  been  learnin'  me  French,'  she  says;  'and 
when  you  asked  me  who  was  at  the  party,  I  said, 
"Toute  le  monde"  'I  know  it,'  said  Ezra;  'but 
his  party  days  are  over.  Tooley  Mond  had 
better  get  busy  wtitin'  R.I. P.  after  his  name.' 
'Why,  you  gol-darned  old  sheesicks,'  said  Mrs. 
Ezra,  or  words  to  that  effect,  'don't  you  know 
what  tout  le  monde  means?  It's  French  for 
everybody.  When  I  said  tout  le  monde  would  be 
there,  I  meant  everybody  would  be  there — that  is, 
everybody  who  was  anybody.'  'Do  you  mean 
there  ain't  no  such  guy  as  Tooley  Mond?'  asked 
Ezra,  a  bit  fazed.  'Of  course  there  isn't!  Run 
home,  dearie,  and  learn  French,'  says  Mrs.  Ezra ; 
*  I  want  my  beauty  sleep.' 

"So  Ezra  beat  it  back  to  N'york  at  a  hundred 
miles  per,  and  laughed  fit  to  bust.  He  woke  up 
a  waiter  and  made  him  dig  out  a  magnum  of 
fizzy  stuff.  It  cured  Ezra  of  jealousy,  and  it  cured 


1 68  THREADS 

Mrs.  Ezra  of  speakin'  French;  but  it  only  shows 
you  how  easy  it  is  to  suspect  a  woman  of  handin' 
you  the  mitt,  and  when  I  read  of  a  guy  gettin' 
jealous  of  his  wife  I  always  think  of  Ezra  and 
Tooley  Mond." 


CHAPTER  XII 

Reformer:  My  son!     Please  yourself! 

Son:  It  is  my  religion. 

Reformer:  Then  ask  of  me  no  contribution  to  the  Cause. 

Pfo  P atria,  Act  1. 

JOHN  strolled  about  the  room,  examining  the 
books  and  china.  Then  his  eyes  rested  on  the 
pianola.  He  looked  at  it,  a  little  puzzled;  he  ex- 
amined it,  still  more  puzzled;  he  took  up  a  music 
roll,  tried  to  read  it,  could  make  neither  head 
nor  tail  of  it,  so  replaced  it  and  rang  the  bell. 
Parsons  appeared.  "Yes,  sir?"  she  inquired. 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  this  thing  is?"  asked 
John. 

Parsons  explained.  "How  very  fascinating!" 
said  John.  "Can  you  work  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir!"  replied  Parsons.  "Cook  and  I 
often  has  harmonious  evenings — when  the  fam- 
ily 's  out.  Oh !"  she  pulled  herself  up  and 
glanced  at  John  deprecatingly. 

"That 's  all  right,  Parsons  I  Show  me  how  you 
do  it,"  said  John. 

"But  it 's  Sunday,"  protested  the  parlor-maid. 

"Isn't  one  supposed  to  enjoy  music  on  Sun- 
day?" he  inquired. 

169 


170  THREADS 

"Madame  has  no  objection,  sir,"  replied  Par- 
sons; "but  cook  has  prejudices." 

"It 's  a  bad  thing  to  have  prejudices.  Cook 
should  try  to  conquer  them,"  said  John.  "Please 
sit  down  and  play  this,"  he  added,  handing  her  a 
roll  marked  "Cavalleria  Rusticana." 

"I  call  it  'Rustic  Cavalry.'  Does  it  mean  the 
yeomanry,  sir?"  inquired  Parsons,  seating  herself 
at  the  pianola  and  adjusting  the  levers. 

"Not  altogether,"  replied  John.     "Go  ahead !" 

Parsons  pedaled  conscientiously,  and  John 
stood  watching  her,  fascinated. 

Unfortunately,  Arthur  and  Chloe  chose  that 
moment  to  arrive.  They  entered  the  room,  and 
stopped  aghast  at  the  sight.  Chloe  gurgled  with 
suppressed  laughter,  but  Arthur  was  genuinely 
horrified.  Arthur  was  always  afraid  of  what 
people  would  think,  having  acquired  such  middle- 
class  prejudices  at  Harrow  and  Cambridge. 

Chloe  was  about  twenty,  very  attractive  and 
pretty,  very  assured  in  manner,  with  a  high,  clear 
voice.  She  rarely  hesitated  in  her  speech,  and 
was  very  direct  in  what  she  said.  She  had  made 
some  enemies  by  her  frankness.  People,  as  a 
rule,  listened  to  her,  not  on  account  of  what  she 
said  but  of  how  she  said  it,  and  because  her 
voice  was  as  clear  as  a  bell  and  had  great  carry- 
ing power.  She  was  delightfully  lacking  in  self- 
consciousness,  but  she  suffered  from  occasional 


THREADS  171 

fits  of  introspection — though,  indeed,  she  pos- 
sessed the  virtue  of  accepting  things  as  they  were 
to  quite  a  remarkable  degree. 

"Father!"  protested  Arthur  in  a  horrified  voice. 

"Hallo,  Arthur!"  said  John,  turning  to  greet 
him. 

Arthur  went  over  to  the  pianolo.  "Parsons! 
How  dare  you?  Stop  at  once!" 

Parsons  silenced  the  instrument  and  rose  re- 
spectfully. "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir!  This — 
this  gentleman — " 

"That  will  do,  Parsons,"  said  Arthur  irritably. 

Parsons,  unperturbed,  left  the  room.  "Really, 
father!  What  will  cook  say?"  protested  Arthur. 

John  laughed.  "What  will  she  say?  And 
why  should  you  worry?"  he  inquired. 

Arthur  looked  perplexed.  "She  's  a  good  cook; 
they  are  so  rare,"  he  explained. 

"Do  you  mean  good  cooks  are  rare,  or  good 
cooks?  I  prefer  the  former,"  said  John.  "Is 
this  Chloe?"  he  asked,  turning  to  her  with  a  wel- 
coming smile. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Chloe,  shaking  hands. 
"I  think  it  was  awfully  sporting  having  Parsons 
in  to  play  to  you.  She  has  quite  a  touch." 

"Father!  I  have  told  Chloe  everything,"  ex- 
plained Arthur. 

John  turned  to  her.     "Well?"  he  inquired. 

"He  has  been  as  serious  as  a  Cabinet  Minister 


172  THREADS 

out  of  a  job.  I  couldn't  think  what  it  was  he 
had  to  confess,"  said  Chloe;  "unless  it  meant  that 
he  had  a  past  and  had  suddenly  grown  conscien- 
tious. I  think  it 's  horribly  hard  lines  on  you" 
she  added  sympathetically.  "I  hope  someone  will 
ask  a  question  about  it  in  the  House :  it  might  lead 
to  something." 

John  chuckled.  Chloe  was  evidently  an 
optimist.  But  he  liked  the  modern  way  of  taking 
everything  for  granted,  it  saved  a  great  deal  of 
unnecessary  explanation.  Chloe  hated  explana- 
tions. When  a  girl  possessed  parents  who  in- 
variably disagreed  on  every  point,  on  principle, 
she  soon  discovered  that  principles  were  provoca- 
tive of  unprincipled  behavior,  and  that  it  was 
wiser  to  eliminate  them.  Arthur  had  failed  to 
acquire  her  philosophy;  as  a  budding  diplomat,  he 
had  cultivated  a  habit  of  making  phrases  that  by 
no  possibility  could  be  construed  into  meaning 
anything,  and  on  that  account  would  before  long 
reap  his  reward  in  the  form  of  an  under-secre- 
taryship. 

"Have  you  told  Lord  Gratham?"  asked  John. 

"I  told  him  you  had  come  home  unexpectedly," 
replied  Arthur. 

Lord  Gratham  was  a  very  unimaginative  man ; 
his  distrust  of  the  abnormal  amounted  to  a 
disease,  and  his  first  move  had  been  to  order 
Chloe  to  break  off  her  engagement.  "We  are  not 


THREADS  173 

in  the  nineteenth  century,"  Chloe  had  protested 
— which  annoyed  him  still  more;  for  he  himself 
belonged  to  the  nineteenth  century  and  hated  to 
be  reminded  of  the  fact  that  we  had  grown  out 
of  it. 

"How  does  the  matter  rest?"  inquired  John. 

"It  doesn't  rest,"  replied  Chloe;  "it  pops  up 
every  few  minutes,  rendering  the  atmosphere  dis- 
tinctly stormy." 

Lord  Gratham  had  refused  to  listen  to  ex- 
planations ;  he  always  hated  details ;  he  could  not 
help  thinking  that  having  a  father  when  you  don't 
expect  one  was  more  provocative  of  scandal  than 
not  having  a  father  at  all.  "He  has  gone  to 
church — to  think  the  matter  over,"  said  Chloe. 
"At  least,  that 's  what  he  says.  He  has  really 
gone  to  get  away  from  mother.  You  see,  mother, 
when  she  saw  that  father  was  in  opposition,  natu- 
rally took  my  side.  She  certainly  drew  his  fire 
a  bit,  and  gave  me  time  to  collect  some  argu- 
ments." 

"Suppose  he  persists  in  his  opposition?"  sug- 
gested John. 

"We  're  perfectly  willing  to  admit  his  point  of 
view,  but  not  his  right  to  interfere  with  ours," 
replied  Chloe. 

John  pondered  the  question.  No  man  was 
capable  of  an  unbiased  judgment  after  forty. 
Children  appeared  to  consult  their  parents  as  a 


174  THREADS 

matter  of  courtesy,  without  prejudice  to  any  de- 
cision they  might  take ;  they  had  to  discover  life 
for  themselves.  The  younger  generation  had 
traveled  far  in  the  last  fifteen  years;  they  had 
had  a  long  way  to  go,  having  been  sidetracked 
for  so  many  thousand  years.  Really,  it  was  a  very 
interesting  world  to  come  back  to — a  deliciously 
ironical  world!  How  could  a  man  help  enjoying 
these  intimate  glimpses  into  the  points  of  view  of 
the  people  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  ?  Every- 
one semed  so  thoroughly  satisfied  with  his  own 
ethics.  In  John's  young  days  they  had  had 
DOUBTS — with  a  big  D — on  almost  every  subject 
— including  religion.  Now  all  doubts  seemed  to 
'have  been  solved,  and  the  only  really  important 
thing  appeared  to  be  to  get  what  you  could  and 
to  give  only  what  you  must.  Not  that  the  world 
was  selfish :  it  was  merely  self-assured. 

Naturally,  young  people  did  not  take  much 
stock  in  the  older  generation.  Why  should  they? 
When  the  war  started,  it  had  been  the  older 
men  who  had  waved  flags  and  shouted  and  talked 
of  Christmas  in  Berlin.  (Some  of  them  had  spent 
more  than  one  Christmas,  not  actually  in  Berlin, 
but  just  outside — poor  devils!)  The  younger 
men  went  because  they  had  to;  they  realized  that 
their  fathers  had  made  such  a  muddle  of  every- 
thing that  the  younger  men  were  in  honor  bound 
to  try  and  straighten  things  out.  They  had  had 


THREADS  175 

no  illusions  about  it.  The  older  generation  had 
called  the  youngsters  pessimists  because  they, 
when  asked  if  the  war  would  be  over  by  Christ- 
mas, had  replied,  "Which  Christmas?"  The 
younger  generation  might  be  very  objectionable 
in  some  ways,  but  it  could  not  be  fooled  as  his 
generation  had  been  fooled  by  their  parents. 

Of  course,  there  were  slackers  in  both  parties; 
his  son  appeared  to  be  one  of  them.  The  older 
men  were  patriotic,  but  not  too  efficient;  they  must 
be  inefficient  or  there  would  not  be  so  many  youth- 
ful "indispensables."  It  was  a  terrible  thing  for 
the  country  that  the  older  men  had  to  go  to  the 
trenches — for  which  they  were  physically  un- 
fitted— in  order  to  keep  the  brains  of  the  nation 
at  home.  England's  treatment  of  brains  had  al- 
ways been  a  puzzle  to  foreigners.  It  was  very 
noble  of  Arthur,  super-patriotic,  in  fact,  to  sacri- 
fice his  own  feelings  for  the  sake  of  his  country's 
future.  How  he  must  hate  being  a  civilian  when 
all  decent  men  were  in  khaki !  But,  the  older 
generation  having  made  a  mess  of  things,  certain 
representatives  of  the  younger  generation  evi- 
dently considered  it  their  duty  to  stay  at  home 
and  put  them  right.  Perhaps  they  had  concluded 
that,  the  more  elderly  men  who  were  killed,  the 
more  hope  there  would  be  for  the  future  of  the 
world.  There  was  something  in  that,  no  doubt  I 
Age  was  the  brake  on  the  wheel  of  progress.  But 


176  THREADS 

they  would  have  to  scrap  the  Eton  and  Oxford 
tradition  if  the  younger  generation's  sacrifice  was 
to  bear  useful  fruit.  The  prize  product  of  Eton 
and  Oxford,  that  academic  curse  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  rarely  grew  up.  The  young  man 
who  mattered  nowadays  usually  came  from  a 
mean  street,  and  pounded  his  way  to  Parliament 
by  doing  without  all  the  jolly  things  he  would 
like  to  enjoy.  And  yet,  thought  John,  he  was 
conventional  enough  to  believe  that  the  wisest 
thing  a  young  man  could  do  for  his  country  would 
be  to  fight  his  country's  enemies,  and  to  leave  the 
future  on  the  knees  of  the  gods.  After  all, 
England  had  managed  to  get  along  very  well  for 
a  good  many  centuries  without  paying  much  atten- 
tion to  brains  or  encouraging  intellect.  Her  wor- 
ship of  money  and  established  position  had  made 
her  the  greatest  nation  in  the  world.  Why 
should  she  change  her  views? 

"You  have  n't  asked  me  for  my  point  of  view," 
said  John. 

"Yours?"  echoed  Arthur,  greatly  puzzled.  "I 
fail  to  see  how  it  concerns  you,  sir?" 

"I  should  like  to  know  why  you  remain  at  the 
Foreign  Office  instead  of  getting  into  khaki?"  in- 
quired John. 

"What  on  earth  has  that  to  do  with  our  en- 
gagement?" was  Arthur's  perplexed  reply. 

John  was  unable  to  withold  an  exclamation  of 


THREADS  177 

annoyance.  "Don't  you  feel  ashamed?"  he 
asked. 

"Arthur  has  had  more  white  feathers  pre- 
sented to  him  than  any  other  man  at  the  P.O.," 
announced  Chloe. 

"Isn't  there  one  member  of  my  family  fight- 
ing?" inquired  John  irritably.  It  was  Arthur's 
manner  more  than  the  subject  they  were  discussing 
that  had  got  on  his  father's  nerves. 

"Francis  and  Ronald,  my  cousins,  are  both 
certified  as  indispensable  at  the  Ministry  of 
Munitions,"  replied  Arthur. 

"Indispensable — at  five-and-twenty !"  com- 
mented John  ironically. 

"Why  should  n't  a  man  be  as  indispensable  at 
twenty-five  as  he  is  at  fifty?"  inquired  Arthur. 

It  was  true  that  at  twenty-five  a  man  was  learn- 
ing, and  at  fifty  he  was  teaching;  and  that  the 
man  who  taught  had  reached  his  limitations,  while 
the  man  who  was  learning  had  still  his  to  find. 
Perhaps  the  younger  men  were  of  more  impor- 
tance to  the  country  than  their  fathers  could  ever 
be! 

"I  always  think  it 's  such  a  mistake  to  argue," 
said  Chloe.  "Doing  a  thing  is  much  more  con- 
vincing than  talking  about  it." 

"I  don't  intend  to  argue,"  replied  John.  "I  am 
that  pathetic  figure,  the  man  with  advanced  views 
who  suddenly  finds  himself  on  the  side  of  the 


178  THREADS 

reactionaries.  I  am  not  going  to  argue;  I  am 
going  to  dictate."  Arthur  looked  up  question- 
ingly.  "If  Arthur  has  a  conscientious  objection 
to  fighting — " 

"I  have  n't,"  said  Arthur,  flushing  a  little. 
Realizing  that  his  cheeks  were  warm,  he  became 
irritable.  "I  merely  have  a  conscientious  objec- 
tion to  leaving  the  Foreign  Office."  At  the  men- 
tion of  the  Foreign  Office  his  assurance  returned. 

"I  admit  your  right  to  it,"  replied  John 
amiably.  "But,  at  the  same  time,  you  '11  admit 
my  right  to  my  own  conscientious  objections?" 

Arthur  hesitated.  It  would  depend  upon  what 
they  were. 

"I  have  a  strong  conscientious  objection  to 
seeing  you  in  a  top-hat  instead  of  a  service-cap," 
said  John;  "and  I  can't  help  my  conscience  object- 
ing any  more  than  you  can." 

"Oh,  dear  I"  sighed  Chloe.  "I  did  think  you  'd 
be  reasonable !" 

"I  can't  be  reasonable,"  replied  John,  "when 
I  hear  my  son  talking  academic  platitudes  and 
sheltering  himself  in  what  the  newspapers  call 
a  funk-hole.  The  only  argument  left  for  me  is 
to  cut  off  supplies." 

"Father  is  very  argumentative,  too,"  said 
Chloe.  "But  he  's  quite  an  old  dear  in  his  way. 
Mother  does  n't  say  much,  but  she  's  far  more 
difficult  to  convince.  She  indulges  in  the  old- 


THREADS  179 

fashioned  kind  of  repartee — tears!  When  she 
cries,  I  feel  twice  her  age.  But  she  will  do  it; 
it 's  a  regular  tonic  for  her." 

"My  point  is  that  you  can't  get  new  ideas  from 
middle-aged  men,"  said  Arthur,  getting  bored  by 
the  discussion. 

"A  man's  opinions  are  worthless  until  he  has 
lived  long  enough  to  see  the  other  fellow's  point 
of  view,"  replied  John.  "Get  into  khaki,  and 
I  '11  listen  to  yours." 

Arthur  looked  at  Chloe.  What  were  they  to 
do?  They  could  not  possibly  marry  on  his  pay; 
it  was  scarcely  sufficient  for  Chloe's  dress- 
expenses.  And  he  would  have  to  go  to  a  cheap 
tailor;  there  would  be  no  more  Turkish  cigarettes, 
no  more  taxis.  Why,  you  couldn't  lunch  at  a 
restaurant  under  a  sovereign — not  if  it  was  a 
decent  restaurant.  Besides,  they  both  hated  doing 
things  on  the  cheap.  He  had  always  been  en- 
couraged to  anticipate  an  increased  allowance 
when  he  married.  Without  an  allowance  mar- 
riage was  impossible. 

He  considered  the  question  of  how  he  could 
wrangle  an  allowance  without  concealing  any  of 
his  principles. 

"Are  you  going  to  ruin  our  lives  for  a 
scruple?"  inquired  Chloe  reproachfully. 

"It 's  a  conscientious  scruple,"  replied  John. 


180  THREADS 

"Your  flippancy,  sir,  is  not  in  particularly  good 
taste,"  said  Arthur  stiffly. 

"I  shall  call  on  Lord  Gratham  to-morrow  to 
hear  his  views,"  John  announced. 

"Father  hasn't  any  views,"  said  Chloe;  "he 
merely  has  acquired  prejudices." 

"At  any  rate,  we  can  exchange  prejudices,"  re- 
plied John  genially. 

Chloe  sighed.  She  would  have  liked  Arthur 
to  join  up;  but  was  a  girl  justified  in  persuading 
a  man  to  be  false  to  his  system  of  ethics? 

"My  dear!"  said  John.  "When  my  wife  was 
your  age  she  did  n't  know  what  ethics  were.  She 
probably  thought  they  were  a  disease." 

"Perhaps  they  are,"  replied  Chloe;  "at  any 
rate,  when  people  insist  on  talking  about  them." 

"Arthur  has  all  the  makings  of  an  academic 
snob,"  said  John. 

"Yes;  but  he  's  awfully  decent,"  commented 
Chloe. 

"It 's  fastidiousness  more  than  ethics  that  keeps 
people  decent,"  remarked  John  reminiscently. 

"We  should  get  on  awfully  well  if  we  had 
enough  money  to  do  things  properly,"  argued 
Chloe. 

John  smiled.  Love  in  a  cottage  was  a  privilege 
reserved  for  the  few  who  had  intelligence  enough 
not  to  be  afraid.  Cautious,  unimaginative  people 
liked  to  have  everything  cut  and  dried,  and  suf- 


THREADS  181 

ficient  money  assured;  it  destroyed  all  romance, 
but  it  saved  them  a  lot  of  bother. 

Arthur  had  an  inspiration.  "You  wouldn't 
object  so  much  if  one  of  us  joined  up?"  he  asked. 

John  loked  at  him  questioningly.  "I  think  I 
have  found  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty,"  said 
Arthur. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Reformer:  You  made  a  terrible  mistake! 

King:  I  never  admit  mistakes.     I  daren't.     It  would  upset  the  consti- 
tution. 

Pro  P atria,  Act  i. 

LORD  GRATHAM  had  an  authoritative  manner — 
except  in  the  presence  of  his  wife.  It  was  a  use- 
ful possession.  Most  people  are  inclined  to  accept 
people  at  their  own  valuation;  but  a  portentous 
frown,  a  pair  of  keen  eyes,  and  an  obstinate 
mouth  will  give  a  man  an  established  position 
among  his  friends  and  acquaintances — provided 
he  has  the  gift  of  silence.  Life  is  a  long  game 
of  bluff,  and  the  man  who  can  bluff  most  con- 
vincingly has  the  reward  of  his  skill.  How  many 
of  our  friends  have  any  discrimination  with  re- 
gard to  people  or  things?  Lord  Gratham  had 
bluffed  his  way  through  a  distinguished  career  on 
one  asset — a  talent  for  looking  wiser  than  he 
really  was.  When  he  failed  to  understand  a  point, 
he  looked  very  subtle  and  said:  "Ah I"  very 
meaningly.  It  was  a  trick  he  had  acquired  quite 
unconsciously,  but  it  had  served  its  purpose  by 
bringing  him  fame,  rewards,  and  riches.  Now, 
in  the  autumn  of  his  days,  he  was  a  distinguished 

182    • 


THREADS  183 

ornament  of  the  House  of  Lords.  Accustomed 
to  public  speaking,  his  diction  was  clear  and  un- 
forced; he  had  dignity,  and  a  dislike  of  contradic- 
tion. He  was  obstinate,  prejudiced,  uneasy  to 
move;  and  he  possessed  a  school-boy  sense  of 
humor  which  had  earned  him  a  reputation  among 
the  minor  journalists  for  being  a  wit.  He  had 
lost  his  only  son  in '19 14 — at  Landrecies. 

Lady  Gratham  was  small,  fragile,  and  even 
more  obstinate  than  her  husband,  easy-going  when 
she  had  her  own  way,  tearful  when  thwarted. 
A  charming  hostess,  and  a  conscientious  wife  and 
mother,  without  any  deep  feeling,  fairly  satisfied 
with  the  treatment  life  had  given  her,  but  given 
to  grumbling  at  things  in  the  genuine  English 
fashion,  she  treated  her  husband  rather  like  a 
school-boy,  and  her  daughter  as  an  unknown 
quantity  of  which  she  was  a  trifle  scared.  Life 
had  raced  a  trifle  too  far  ahead  of  Lady  Gratham, 
and  she  could  neither  forgive  nor  forget  the  fact. 
But  her  rose-garden  was  celebrated,  and  her 
herbaceous  borders  well  cared  for. 

"Why,  father,  I  thought  you  had  gone  to 
church,"  cried  Chloe,  as  Parsons  entered  sud- 
denly, announcing  Lord  and  Lady  Gratham. 

"Your  mother  suggested  coming  here  instead," 
replied  her  father  grimly.  "So — well,  here  we 
are!" 

John  was  presented. 


[1 84  THREADS 

"It  always  seems  to  me  that  it 's  wiser  to  know 
what  you  are  worrying  about,"  sighed  Lady 
Gratham,  selecting  by  instinct  the  most  suitable 
chair,  and  removing  her  motor-veil. 

"Now  that  you  know  me,  I  hope  you  won't 
worry  too  much,"  said  John. 

The  conversation  was  a  little  slow  at  the  start; 
it  failed  to  get  into  its  stride.  Arthur  was  pon- 
dering the  situation;  Chloe  was  wondering  how 
much  it  cost  to  make  your  own  clothes  and  where 
you  learn  the  art;  Lord  Gratham  was  waiting  for 
someone  else  to  take  the  offensive;  and  Lady 
Gratham  was  unconsciously  awaiting  an  opportu- 
nity for  one  of  those  sudden  but  brilliant  illustra- 
tions of  the  art  of  tactlessness  of  which  she  was  a 
past-mistress.  John,  on  the  other  hand,  was  won- 
dering where  he  had  seen  Lord  Gratham  before. 
The  face  was  familiar  the  eyes,  the  frown,  the 
massive  solemnity,  the  comedian's  pucker,  the  aug- 
mented twinkle,  the  self-satisfied  chuckle  of  the 
successful  public  jester:  it  was  all  curiously  mem- 
ory-haunting. 

Lord  Gratham  looked  at  John.  Damn  it  I  the 
fellow's  face  was  familiar  in  some  way.  He  had  a 
good  memory  for  faces,  as  a  rule.  He  had  been 
one  of  the  perpetrators  of  that  terrible  old  chest- 
nut, "I  don't  know  your  face,  but  your  manner 
is  familiar!" 

"What 's  all  this  about  your  son  wanting  to  con- 


THREADS  185 

fess  something?"  he  asked  testily.  "What  the 
devil  did  he  want  to  confess?" 

Arthur  had  certainly  mumbled  something,  had 
wanted  to  tell  him  some  infernal  long  rigmarole, 
Lord  knows  what  it  was  about!  If  he  had  any- 
thing to  say,  why  did  n't  he  say  it  to  Lady 
Gratham?  She  liked  hearings  things — all  women 
did. 

"He  wanted  to  confess  that  he  had  a  father," 
replied  John  amiably. 

"Quite!  Quite!"  grunted  Lord  Gratham. 
"Damn  it!  I  knew  he  had  a  father!  It 's  one  of 
those  things  no  fellow  can  do  without !"  he  added, 
chuckling  to  himself  and  instinctively  glancing 
round  the  room  to  observe  if  this  ban  mot  had 
been  faithfully  reported.  "I  must  admit,  how- 
ever, that  it  was  something  of  a  surprise  to  hear 
that  you  were  alive.  Not  that  I  blame  you  for 
that,"  he  added  reassuringly. 

For  what  John  had  received  he  was  truly  thank- 
ful. 

"But  I  had  always  understood  that  Mrs.  Os- 
borne  was  a  widow,"  continued  Lord  Gratham. 
Once  an  idea  had  penetrated  his  brain  it  could  not 
be  dislodged  by  dynamite. 

"She  very  nearly  was,"  replied  John.:  "And,  by 
the  way,  my  name  is  n't  Osborne." 

"Why  not?"  inquired  Lord  Gratham  irritably* 


1 86  THREADS 

"Your  wife  is  Mrs.  Osborne ;  it 's  only  logical  that 
you  should  be  Mr.  Osborne." 

This  almost  uncanny  power  of  reasoning  had 
made  Lord  Gratham  what  he  was. 

"I  presume,  sir,  you  had  some  very  good  reason 
for  changing  your  name?"  Lord  Gratham 
frowned  ominously. 

John  explained  that  his  wife  had  changed  it 
in  order  to  enjoy  the  benefit  of  a  legacy — at  the 
donor's  request. 

"Lots  of  people  change  their  names.  Damme  I 
I  've  done  it  myself,"  said  Lord  Gratham,  thaw- 
ing in  true  Anglo-Saxon  fashion  at  the  mention  of 
a  legacy. 

Napoleon  had  once  said  that  we  were  a  nation 
of  shopkeepers;  he  might  with  more  truth  have 
called  us  a  nation  of  bookmakers.  Our  reputation 
is  more  sporting  than  commercial. 

John  looked  up,  puzzled.     "You  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,"  replied  Lord  Gratham,  with  a  humor- 
ous twinkle  that  was  one  of  his  specialties.  "Be- 
fore I  was  elevated  to  the  peerage  I  was  a  judge." 

It  was  John's  turn  to  chuckle.  Here  was  a  situa- 
tion sufficiently  ironical  to  arouse  the  laughter  of 
Olympus!  "You  were  Mr.  Justice  Winton?" 
Lord  Gratham  nodded.  "I  knew  we  had  met  be- 
fore," said  John. 

Lord    Gratham    looked    at    him    inquiringly. 


THREADS  187 

When,  how,  and  where  had  they  met  before  ?  he 
wondered. 

"Fifteen  years  ago — under  somewhat  embar- 
rassing circumstances,"  replied  John  reminiscently. 
"I  remember  I  disliked  you  intensely,"  he  added 
politely. 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  the  ex-judge,  a 
little  startled.  "Why?" 

John  smiled.  "Well,  for  one  thing,  you  sen- 
tenced me  to  be  hanged,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  mild 
reproach  that  was  a  masterpiece  of  delicate  in- 
flection. 

Lord  Gratham's  jaw  fell  perceptibly.  He 
gasped. 

"He  was  always  doing  things  like  that;  he  had 
surprisingly  little  tact,  for  a  judge,"  complained 
Lady  Gratham,  with  a  sigh. 

Chloe  was  staring  aghast,  Arthur  was  frown- 
ing in  dismay,  Lord  Gratham  looked  as  though 
he  were  going  to  have  a  fit.  But  Lady  Gratham 
took  everything  for  granted;  she  knew  her  hus- 
band. 

"Don't  worry  1"  said  John  soothingly.  "I 
was  n't  hanged !  The  popular  press  intervened. 
The  popular  press  was  n't  satisfied  with  your  con- 
duct of  the  case,  and,  to  be  perfectly  frank,  neither 
was  I.  The  popular  press  said  you  were  biased." 

"I  deny  thatl"  protested  Lord  Gratham 
warmly. 


;x88  THREADS 

"I  thought  you  were  a  little  biased  myself ;  but 
I  was  scarcely  in  a  position  to  give  an  impartial 
opinion,"  continued  John.  "At  any  rate,  the 
popular  press  succeeded  in  getting  my  sentence 
changed  to  one  of  penal  servitude  for  life." 

Lord  Gratham  gasped.  In  that  case,  what  was 
the  fellow  doing  here?  Had  he  escaped?  And 
how  did  he  get  those  clothes  ?  Had  he  come  back 
for  the  purpose  of — what  was  it — "doing  in"  the 
judge  who  had  sentenced  him?  One  had  heard 
of  such  things.  No ;  impossible !  He  was  a  gen- 
tleman. "Damn  it,  man  I  What 's  your  name?" 
inquired  Lord  Gratham.  John  told  him. 

Gratham  tried  to  avoid  his  wife's  gaze.  He 
and  she  had  discussed  the  case — ever  since  his 
friend  the  Home  Secretary  had  mentioned  the  fact 
that  Wynn  was  to  be  released.  Lady  Gratham 
had  reopened  the  wound  in  his  professional  self- 
esteem  on  every  possible  occasion  the  last  few 
days.  Some  women  were  like  that.  But  he  denied 
that  his  conduct  of  the  case  had  been  biased;  he 
had  believed  Wynn  guilty  all  the  time,  and,  once 
he  had  achieved  an  original  opinion,  nothing  could 
disturb  it.  Of  course,  justice  was  not  infallible, 
but  it  should  be;  he  had  done  his  best  to  make 
it  so.  There  might  have  been  mistakes,  but  he 
was  only  human.  In  court,  he  had  represented 
the  majesty  of  the  law,  with  all  the  dislike  of 
criticism  natural  to  an  absolute  monarch.  What 


THREADS  189 

chance  had  twelve  good  men  and  true  of  the  lower 
middle  class  to  formulate  an  opinion  of  their  own 
— even  if  they  had  been  capable  of  such  an  unu- 
sual mental  effort — when  the  judge,  in  his  impres- 
sively theatrical  wardrobe,  was  there  to  overawe 
them,  to  bully  them,  to  frown  at  them,  and  to  tell 
them  what  they  were  to  think  and  what  they  were 
to  do?  The  judge  had  the  power  to  commit  peo- 
ple for  contempt  of  court;  but  the  people  had  no 
power  to  commit  the  judge  for  contempt  of  the 
constitution.  Trial  by  jury  was  an  ironical  farce; 
a  clever  counsel  and  a  prejudiced  judge  could  do 
what  they  pleased  with  the  average  jury.  Wynn's 
trial  and  conviction  had  been  a  case  in  point. 

The  supreme  irony  lay  in  the  fact  that  Gratham 
having  admitted  his  error,  a  matter  of  a  minute, 
could  claim,  in  the  interests  of  good  form,  immu- 
nity from  further  censure;  and  that  John,  who 
had  had  to  pay  for  this  judicial  error,  which  it  had 
taken  the  law  fifteen  years  to  discover,  must,  also 
in  the  interests  of  good  form,  treat  the  whole  oc- 
currence as  a  matter  of  no  consequence. 

Every  night  for  fifteen  years  John  had  turned 
restlessly  on  his  plank  bed,  wide-eyed,  sleepless, 
thinking  of  the  things  he  would  like  to  say  to  the 
judge  who  had  sentenced  him:  points  that  the 
judge  had  overlooked,  evidence  he  had  refused  to 
accept,  objections  he  had  allowed  that  should  have 
been  overruled.  The  speeches  John  had  com- 


1 90  THREADS 

posed,  and  forgotten,  would  have  blistered  Lord 
Gratham's  self-complacence  and  scorched  that 
gentleman's  soul.  At  any  rate,  John  had  thought 
so  at  the  time.  He  had  longed  for  an  opportunity 
to  confront  his  judge  and  to  overwhelm  him  with 
reproaches,  with  bitter  words  and  biting  phrases, 
phrases  that  would  linger,  words  that  would  sting. 
Instead  of  which,  here  he  was  calmly  hobnobbing 
with  Lord  Gratham  in  his  own  house,  discussing 
the  question  of  his  son's  marriage  to  Lord  Grat- 
ham's'daughter. 

Arthur  turned  to  his  prospective  father-in-law. 
"Naturally,  sir,  I  did  n't  know  that  you  were  the 
judge  who  sentenced  my  father." 

Lord  Gratham's  face  puckered;  he  looked  more 
like  a  comedian  than  ever.  Had  he  been  labeled 
comic,  the  public  would  have  laughed  at  him;  but 
they  had  merely  laughed  at  his  jokes — on  the  ad- 
vice of  the  press. 

"Hang  it,  Arthur !"  protested  Gratham.  "How 
can  Chloe  marry  you — under  the  circumstances?" 

"Exactly!"  agreed  John.  "But  I  think  the  ob- 
jection should  come  from  me.  Not  that  I  have 
any  particular  objection — on  account  of  what  hap- 
pened fifteen  years  ago,"  he  added  courteously. 
"Of  course,  if  the  sentence  had  been  carried  out, 
it  might  have  produced  a  certain  amount  of  ill 
feeling;  it  might  even  have  been  used  as  a  cause 
for  quarreling — toward  the  end  of  the  honey- 


THREADS  i9i 

moon.  As  it  is — "  He  hesitated,  feeling  for  a 
satisfactory  phrase. 

"Confound  it,  man !  It 's  worse,"  cried  the 
worried  ex-judge. 

"You  could  scarcely  expect  me  to  agree  with 
you,"  replied  John,  with  mild  sarcasm. 

Lord  Gratham  frowned.  Wynn  was  a  very  no- 
torious person;  that  is  to  say,  he  would  be.  The 
Daily  Telegraph  would  probably  indulge  in  its 
penchant  for  shilling  subscriptions  in  order  to  pre- 
sent him  with  a  public  testimonial  for  all  he  had 
undergone  in  error.  Gratham  himself  would 
be  severely  criticized — which  would  be  harmful 
for  the  etiquette  of  the  profession;  and  the  law, 
like  its  equally  well-protected  sister,  the  medical 
profession,  was  largely  a  matter  of  etiquette.  The 
whole  case  would  be  resurrected.  Gratham  him- 
self would  not  come  out  of  it  with  the  eclat  so 
necessary  to  the  dignity  of  a  member  of  the  Upper 
House.  The  Daily  Mail  would  probably  have  an 
article  on  elderly  judges.  He  remembered  that 
newspaper's  crusade  against  the  appointment  of 
a  Foreign  Secretary  some  six  months  before;  it 
had  added  the  adjective  "old"  to  every  mention  of 
the  candidate's  name.  Lord  Gratham  denied  that 
lie  was  prejudiced,  but,  as  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, the  matter  must  be  considered  closed. 

"You  did  n't  get  sent  to  Portland,"  protested 
John;  "you  merely  went  to  the  House  of  Lords. 


192  THREADS 

They  sent  me  to  break  stones;  they  sent  you  to 
break  the  somnolent  calm  of  a  picturesque  but 
futile  anachronism." 

"I  deny  that,"  cried  Gratham,  with  some  heat. 
"The  House  of  Lords  is  as  modern  as  the  other 
place." 

John  smiled.  The  House  of  Lords  had  always 
reminded  him  of  a  cathedral,  built  for  the  worship 
of  success. 

"I  admit  that  the  first  time  I  wore  my  coronet 
and  robes  I  felt  an  ass,"  admitted  Lord  Gratham, 
with  a  twinkle.  "I  suppose  every  peer  does — 
unless  he  is  so  constituted  that  he  considers  the 
hereditary  principle  to  be  of  divine  origin.  But, 
looked  at  from  a  purely  utilitarian  point  of  view, 
a  peer's  robes  are  an  excellent  specific  for  keeping 
out  the  draught." 

"My  objections  to  the  marriage  are  insuper- 
able," said  John;  "but  I  'm  hanged  if  I  can  see  any 
reason  for  yours." 

Gratham  protested.  He  failed  to  see  on  what 
grounds  John  based  his  objection.  Gratham's  own 
objection  was  indubitably  logical.  His  prospective 
son-in-law's  father  had  been  a  convict — the  vic- 
tim of  a  judicial  error  of  judgment,  certainly; 
but  no  amount  of  innocence  could  eradicate  the 
marks  of  the  chains. 

"Then  what  the  devil  is  the  use,  my  dear  Grat- 
ham, of  sending  poor  brutes  to  prison  for  ten  or 


THREADS  193 

fifteen  years,  and  then  letting  them  out — if  the 
brand  is  always  to  be  on  their  cheeks?"  asked 
John  grimly.  "You  had  better  hang  them  for 
every  offense  and  have  done  with  it." 

Gratham  grunted.  Theories  were  all  very  well 
until  they  touched  your  own  household — when 
ethics  had  to  be  subordinated  to  prejudice.  Not 
that  he  himself  was  prejudiced — he  denied  being 
prejudiced;  but  there  were  limits  to  his  breadth 
of  mind. 

John,  on  the  other  hand,  failed  to  see  why  Lord 
Gratham  should  make  him  responsible  for  his 
son's  disappointed  hopes  and  expectations.  After 
all,  Arthur  was  in  the  Foreign  Office,  and  nothing 
could  disturb  the  poise  of  a  permanent  official  in 
the  civil  service. 

"It  would  never  cease  to  be  embarrassing,"  con- 
tinued Gratham.  "Suppose  their  children  were  to 
say  to  you:  'Grandpa,  what  did  you  do  in  the 
Great  War?'  .  .  .  You  couldn't  very  well  tell 
them  that  you  spent  the  first  three  years  of  it  in 
prison,  owing  to  my  misdirection  of  the  jury.  No, 
my  dear  fellow !  It 's  the  little  things  that  make 
or  mar  the  comforts  of  life." 

John  smiled.  "You  may  object  to  your  daugh- 
ter entering  my  son's  family,"  he  said;  "but  I 
object  still  more  to  my  son  entering  your  family." 

Arthur  protested. 

"My  dear  man,  you  are  allowing  yourself  to  be 


i94  THREADS 

carried  away  by  prejudice,"  said  Gratham  judi- 
cially. 

"Do  you  realize  that  if  my  son  married  your 
daughter,  the  newspapers  would  label  us  as  ac- 
tors in  a  romantic  episode,  and  that  our  portraits 
would  appear  on  page  eight — with  inset  of  either 
Portland  Prison  or  the  Old  Bailey?"  inquired 
John. 

Gratham  snorted.  He  disliked  sarcasm  in  any- 
one but  himself. 

"But  my  objection  to  the  marriage  has  a  still 
stronger  basis,"  continued  John.  "I  object  to  it 
on  the  grounds  of  heredity." 

"I  don't  follow  you,"  said  Lord  Gratham  stiffly. 
Heredity  was  the  corner-stone  of  the  British  con- 
stitution, and  Gratham  was  a  Tory  both  by  instinct 
and  prejudice. 

"Apart  from  the  fact  that  no  man  is  fit  to  be  a 
judge  under  thirty  or  over  sixty — " 

"I  deny  that,"  interrupted  Lord  Gratham. 

John  explained.  "Under  thirty  a  man  has  n't 
acquired  a  sense  of  morality;  over  sixty  he  has 
lost  it." 

"What  about  women?"  inquired  Lord  Grat- 
ham, with  a  snort. 

"Oh,  women  never  had  any,"  replied  John  ami- 
ably. "No  really  nice  women  have  any  morals; 
they  merely  have  a  sense  of  decency,  and  they  are 
innately  loyal  to  the  prejudices  of  society  as  it  is 


THREADS  195 

constituted.  But,  to  return  to  my  point — which  is 
not  that  a  judge  of  over  sixty  will  hurry  through 
a  case  for  fear  of  missing  an  appointment  to  play 
golf—" 

"I  deny  that,"  protested  Gratham,  mechanic- 
ally but  without  conviction. 

"My  point  is  that  I,  as  the  presumed  criminal, 
however  unpleasant  my  position  was,  should  cer- 
tainly have  been  the  star  of  the  occasion.  But  I 
was  n't,"  said  John  reproachfully,  his  mind  work- 
ing back  to  that  centuries-long  day  in  the  stuffy 
court,  all  the  windows  of  which  were  discreetly 
closed  by  order  of  the  judge,  where  he  stood 
grimly  watching  the  Attorney-General  who  had 
led  for  the  crown,  and  the  wholly  incapable  junior 
counsel  who  had  defended  him  (he  admitted  the 
junior's  difficulties  in  the  absence  of  the  K.C.  who 
had  been  retained  for  the  defense) ,  trying  to  score 
off  each  other  like  a  pair  of  star  comic  actors  in  a 
musical  comedy.  He  himself  had  been  merely  the 
author  of  the  play;  his  fate  was  a  minor  incident. 
But,  though  barristers  will  be  barristers,  the 
learned  judge  was  not  put  there  to  make  jokes. 

"You,  Lord  Gratham,"  cried  John  indignantly, 
"encouraged  by  a  stupid  press  and  a  servile  set  of 
court  officials,  took  every  possible  opportunity  to 
raise  a  laugh.  Your  jokes — jokes  that  should 
have  been  decently  interred  ages  ago — were  not 
only  out  of  place,  but,  considering  that  a  man's  life 


196  THREADS 

was  hanging  in  the  balance,  distinctly  in  bad  taste. 
When  anyone  else  endeavored  to  be  funny,  you 
threatened  to  clear  the  court;  but  at  your  own 
silly  jokelets  you  chuckled  with  the  greatest  ap- 
preciation. I  was  on  trial  for  my  life;  but  you 
turned  my  trial  into  a  farce — with  only  one  star 
in  it — yourself !  And  I  confess,"  he  concluded, 
with  gentle  irony,  "I  confess  I  am  fearful  of  the 
results  of  heredity  peeping  out  in  any  offspring 
that  might  bless  the  union  of  my  son  to  your 
daughter." 

Chloe,  who  was  glancing  at  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine, looked  up  and  frowned,  a  little  perplexed; 
Arthur  squirmed.  Lady  Gratham  concealed  a 
yawn  and  wondered  whether  they  would  be  late 
for  lunch. 

Lord  Gratham  stiffened.  He  denied  that  his 
jokes  ever  offended  good  taste.  It  was  true  that 
he  had  never  been  compelled  to  listen  to  them 
while  wondering  what  his  fate  was  going  to  be. 
But  his  jokes  had  always  been  of  the  healthy,  ob- 
vious, elemental  kind.  "I  am  bringing  out  a  vol- 
ume of  my  most  priceless  jokes,"  he  had  confessed 
to  a  friend.  "Good  heavens !  Surely  they  are  all 
in  Punch"  replied  his  friend.  They  had  parted 
on  unfriendly  terms. 

Lord  Gratham's  taste  in  literature  was  simple. 
It  embraced  books  of  humor  like  "Three  Men  in  a 
Boat"  and  sentiment  of  the  treacly  order  that  had 


THREADS  197 

so  appealed  to  public  opinion  in  "The  First  Hun- 
dred Thousand"  where  kind  hearts  paid  such 
respect  to  coronets  that  the  lion  lay  down  with 
the  lamb — only  one  was  a  little  doubtful  whether 
it  was  the  lion  or  the  lamb  that  wore  kilts.  Punch, 
too,  invariably  gave  him  pleasure — though  he 
never  ceased  to  protest  against  the  mingling  of 
its  contents  with  the  advertising  matter.  Irony  he 
did  not  understand,  subtlety  bored  him,  and  he 
cordially  disliked  truth  in  art.  Like  so  many  of 
his  class,  he  left  his  brains  in  the  cloak-room  when 
visiting  the  theater,  and  put  them  in  his  spectacle- 
case  when  reading  a  book.  He  liked  a  hero  to  be 
a  hero,  and  a  villain  stuffed  with  machinations. 
Modern  literature  did  not  appeal  to  him.  He 
considered  John  Galsworthy's  "Country  House" 
prejudiced,  and  Wells  "one  of  those  damned 
democrats." 

The  press  had  started  booming  him  as  a  great 
humorist,  and  he  had  been  obliged  to  live  up  to  his 
reputation;  but  for  the  last  fifteen  years  he  had 
joked  with  difficulty.  Having  been  labeled  a  wit, 
the  public  concluded  that  even  his  cough  was  full 
of  subtle  humor.  His  famous  question:  "Who  is 
Lloyd-George?"  was  still  quoted  as  a  priceless 
specimen  of  a  judicial  joke.  He  was  the  unfor- 
tunate victim  of  the  British  craze  for  labels. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

King:  Yon  shall  have  my  crown — as  compensation. 
Reformer:  I  have  suffered  enough  already. 

Pro  Patriot  Act  I. 

WHEN  a  public  character  has  to  be  funny  on  prin- 
ciple, in  order  to  live  up  to  his  reputation,  he 
deserves  some  pity.  A  philosopher  might  ask 
whether  it  would  not  be  wiser  either  to  have  no 
principles  or  to  be  entirely  lacking  in  reputation. 
Many  people  are  celebrated  for  something  they 
do  not  possess,  while  their  chief  assets  are  studi- 
ously ignored.  Life  is  supremely  ironical  at  times. 

After  all,  a  judge  is  little  more  than  a  glorified 
umpire :  the  white  coat  becomes  the  ermine  cloak, 
and  the  billycock  hat  is  exchanged  for  the  judicial 
wig. 

It  is  the  gambling  fever  in  Great  Britain  as  a 
nation  that  makes  trial  by  jury  so  thrilling.  The 
accused  is  a  mere  cipher,  and  the  judge  is  there  to 
decide  which  of  the  opposing  barristers  is  the 
cleverest.  The  inherent  love  of  justice  in  the  Brit- 
ish people  jis  an  excellent  subject  for  leading 
articles  in  the  newspapers ;  for  the  journalist,  like 
the  politician,  can  succeed  only  by  flattering  his 
supporters.  John  Bull  can  lap  up  flattery  by  the 

198 


THREADS  199 

gallon;  but  tell  him  the  truth  about  himself  and 
he  refuses  to  pay.  British  justice  is  very  like 
British  sport;  the  public  cheers  the  winner,  but 
has  a  sentimental  sympathy  for  a  good  loser.  The 
public  demonstration  that  had  been  engineered  on 
John's  behalf  had  not  been  due  to  love  of  justice; 
it  arose  from  the  fact  that  half  the  nation  had 
betted  the  other  half  that  John  would  be  hanged, 
and  each  side  was  trying  to  hedge  a  little. 

Lady  Gratham  looked  pensive.  "Why  is  it  that 
when  two  fathers  get  together  they  always  look 
upon  the  subject  from  their  own  point  of  view  and 
never  from  that  of  their  children?"  she  inquired. 

"I  deny  that,"  replied  her  husband  promptly. 

"It  is  perfectly  true,"  she  continued  placidly. 
"The  children's  point  of  view  has  not  entered 
your  minds.  You  won't  permit  this  marriage  be- 
cause Mr.  Osborne — Mr.  Wynn — " 

"Mr.  Wynn,  if  you  don't  mind,"  said  John. 

"Because  Mr.  Wynn  bears  you  a  grudge  for 
sentencing  him  to  be  hanged,  and  you  bear  him  a 
grudge  for  not  having  been  hanged.  So  you  have 
determined  to  make  your  children  unhappy  in 
order  to  appease  your  own  prejudices." 

"My  dear  Lady  Gratham,"  said  John.  "There 
conies  a  time — even  in  the  happiest  marriages — 
when  the  moral  and  mental  deficiencies  of  the 
relations-in-law  come  up  for  discussion.  Picture 
to  yourself  the  result  of  such  a  discussion  under 


200  THREADS 

these  circumstances !  A  woman  occasionally  ex- 
aggerates her  point  in  order  to  prove  it,  does  n't 
she?"  Lady  Gratham  looked  at  the  pattern  of 
the  carpet,  then  at  her  husband.  She  smiled 
demurely,  but  otherwise  preserved  an  attitude  of 
strict  neutrality.  "And  a  man  encourages  her  to 
do  this,"  continued  John,  "in  order  to  squash  her 
by  logic.  Men  are  such  brutes !" 

Lady  Gratham  sighed:  twenty-five  years  of 
married  life  teaches  a  woman  a  certain  defensive 
philosophy.  Lord  Gratham's  difficulty  lay  in  the 
fact  that  he  could  never  be  quite  certain  whether 
his  wife  would  accept  a  challenge  and  argue  about 
it,  referring  incidentally  to  every  remark  he  had 
ever  made  that  was  pertinent  to  the  subject  under 
discussion  and  to  every  action  that  had  contra- 
dicted his  words,  or  whether  she  would  agree  with 
him  and  say,  "You  know  best,  dear."  Only  an 
extremely  clever  man  can  tell  whether  a  woman's 
"You  know  best,  dear!"  is  a  sign  of  surrender  or 
a  subtle  form  of  irony. 

A  woman  will  say:  "I  bought  a  hat  cheap  at  a 
sale — only  nineteen  shillings !"  But  her  husband 
knows  in  his  innermost  soul  that  the  real  price 
paid  was  nineteen  shillings  and  eleven-pence  three 
farthings.  A  woman  is  always  elevenpence  three 
farthings  under  the  truth  in  confession  and  three 
hundred  per  cent  over  it  in  accusation. 

"I  remember  trying  a  case  in  nineteen  hundred 


THREADS  201 

and  four,"  commenced  Lord  Gratham,  "and  mak- 
ing a  little  joke — " 

"Exactly !"  interrupted  John.  "I  have  been  the 
victim  of  one  of  your  little  jokes,  so  I  know  them. 
But  picture  to  yourself,  Lady  Gratham,  our  young 
people  discussing  us — after  the  argument  had  be- 
come a  little  heated.  Arthur,  stung  by  some  subtle 
dig  cleverly  administered  by  .Chloe,  retorts:  'Your 
father  robbed  mine  of  fifteen  years  P  And  Chloe, 
her  lips  pressed  tightly  together,  snaps  back  'Well, 
we  have  only  one  man's  statement  to  prove  that 
he  didn't  deserve  it!'  " 

Chloe  smiled  and  looked  at  Arthur  medita- 
tively. 

"Why,  even  you,  my  dear,"  said  Gratham,  turn- 
ing to  his  wife,  "since  the  Home  Office  informed 
me  of  this  mistake,  whenever  I  have  said  I  was 
certain  of  anything,  even  you  have  invariably  re- 
plied: 'We  are  none  of  us  infallible,  are  we?  Look 
at  poor  Mr.  Wynn !'  " 

"It  would  be  very  unkind  and  very  selfish  to 
break  their  hearts — just  from  prejudice,"  pro- 
tested Lady  Gratham,  preparing  for  tears.  Judg- 
ing by  the  size  of  her  handkerchief,  her  tears 
would  be  very  little  ones;  but  they  had  the  usual 
effect.  A  man  can  stand  up  against  a  woman's 
anger,  righteous  or  unrighteous,  just  or  unjust; 
he  can  be  the  whipping-post  against  which  she 
relieves  her  frazzled  nerves;  he  can  allow  her  to 


202  THREADS 

heap  on  his  shoulders  the  result  of  a  day's  shop- 
ping at  the  army  and  navy  stores — an  operation 
that  would  disturb  the  equanimity  of  a  saint; 
but  he  cannot  face  the  spectacle  of  falling  tears. 

"Confound  it,  my  dear!"  he  ejaculated,  his 
brows  puckering  and  his  mouth  working,  "Con- 
found it  I  Don't  cry  I" 

"Look  at  Chloe,  sitting  there  with  her  heart 
slowly  breaking,"  sobbed  Lady  Gratham. 

If  Chloe's  heart  was  slowly  breaking,  she  ad- 
mirably concealed  the  fact.  I  'm  sorry  father 
won't  be  reasonable,"  she  remarked;  "but  I  'mnot 
going  to  let  his  prejudices  break  my  heart." 

"You  take  everything  so  calmly — even  your 
parents,"  complained  Lady  Gratham.  "We  are 
no  longer  closed  books  to  our  children;  we  are — 
we  are  moving  pictures." 

"I  know  I  shall  never  hear  the  last  of  this 
affair,"  exclaimed  Lord  Gratham  grumpily. 

"There  's  a  certain  amount  of  justice  in  that," 
said  John. 

"I  deny  that,"  replied  Lord  Gratham.  "I  was 
doing  my  duty — as  I  thought.  You  will  at  least 
admit  my  sincerity?" 

John  admitted  Gratham's  sincerity — up  to  a 
point.  But  he  remembered  certain  aspects  of  his 
trial.  The  jury  must  have  realized  that  the  judge 
believed  him  guilty;  every  look,  every  word, 
every  inference  increased  that  certainty.  It  is  so 


THREADS  203 

easy  to  label  a  fellow-creature  in  the  eyes  of  the 
majority.  Mrs.  Smith,  a  widow,  takes  a  country 
cottage;  she  is  pretty,  young,  demure,  detached, 
and  the  narrowness  and  stupidity  of  her  neighbors 
increase  her  desire  to  live  her  own  life.  Village 
title-tattle  offends  her,  village  curiosity  irritates 
her,  she  exasperates  callers  by  refusing  to  listen 
to  gossip.  Some  jealous,  spiteful  cat  who  has  been 
expeditiously  snubbed  says  to  her  bosom  crony: 
"Huh!  She  's  probably  an  actress  or  a  divorcee! 
She's  so  secret  about  herself!"  A  day  or  two 
later  another  sweet  and  charitable  member  of  the 
same  congregation  says :  "Have  you  heard  ?  Is  n't 
it  dreadful?  That  Mrs.  Smith  is  an  actress  who 
'has  been  divorced!"  "No?"  says  her  friend* 
"Then  one  must  not  dream  of  calling!"  Finally 
Mrs.  Smith  has  to  leave  the  village — the  poison 
from  one  irresponsible  and  mischievous  tongue 
having  infected  the  whole  community.  In  the 
same  way,  the  judge  had  played  on  the  suscepti- 
bilities of  the  jury  like  a  clever  actor,  and  had 
succeeded  in  convincing  them  of  John's  guilt; 
when  by  right  he  should  have  been  holding  the 
scales  evenly,  or,  had  there  been  any  bias,  it  should 
have  been  in  John's  favor.  But  the  judge  had 
assumed  the  prisoner's  guilt  from  the  start,  and 
John  had  been  robbed  of  his  liberty.  He  had 
been  robbed  of  love,  of  happiness,  of  the  respect 
of  his  fellow-men,  of  the  companionship  of  his 


204  THREADS 

wife  and  children,  of  his  career,  of  everything  that 
made  life  worth  while.  He  had  been  robbed  un- 
fairly; he  had  paid  another  man's  debt;  and  he 
had  come  back,  like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  to  find 
everything  changed,  his  wife  almost  a  stranger 
to  him,  the  world  talking  a  fresh  language,  to  find 
himself  at  fifty — the  prime  of  life — out  of  date, 
out  of  the  race,  out  of  touch,  a  mere  looker-on  at 
the  life  in  which  he  had  once  played  so  active  a 
part.  And  all  because  of  Lord  Gratham's  preju- 
dice, his  obstinacy,  his  refusal  to  see  the  other 
side.  And  here  was  Gratham  protesting  that  his 
intentions  had  been  of  the  best,  that  he  had  acted 
from  sincere  convictions,  that  he  had  done  his 
duty. 

Once  more  John's  sense  of  humor  came  to  the 
rescue,  and  his  surge  of  wild  and  almost  uncon- 
trolled fury  died  down  as  he  realized  that,  human 
nature  Toeing  what  it  was,  life  was  bound  to  be 
more  or  less  a  harlequinade.  For  some  the  leap- 
ing through  brick  walls,  for  others  the  buttered 
slide ;  for  some  the  twirling  pirouette,  for  others 
the  string  of  sausages;  for  some  the  pantaloon's 
gullibility,  for  others  the  clown's  horse-collar.  If 
there  is  any  foundation  for  the  belief  in  working 
out  one's  karma  in  a  series  of  lives,  a  child's  first 
words  on  opening  its  eyes  on  this  fantastic  world 
must  be  the  ancient  cry  of  the  clown:  "Here  we 
are  again !" 


THREADS  205 

But  if  there  is  any  justice  in  the  scheme  of 
things,  and  those  of  us  who  believe  with  the  Llama 
that  "Just  is  the  wheel,  swerving  not  a  hair- 
breadth," cannot  question  it,  then  a  man  like  John, 
who  had  been  robbed  of  fifteen  years  of  his  life, 
must  either  be  paying  for  past  sins  or  for  future 
joys.  The  old  ideas  of  heaven  and  hell  were  too 
illogical  for  reasonable  people  to  credit.  That 
some  should  be  born  on  velvet  and  some  into 
misery,  by  haphazard  chance,  was  a  belief  that 
was  nothing  but  an  insult  to  the  Creator  of  man- 
kind. If  God  were  not  logical,  then  the  whole 
scheme  of  creation  was  a  fantastic  farce. 

John  shook  himself  like  a  dog,  and  returned  to 
practical  matters. 

"If  it  were  possible  to  offer  you  adequate  com- 
pensation," he  heard  Gratham  remarking,  "I 
should  do  so;  but  even  the  government  cannot 
give  a  man  back  fifteen  years  of  his  life." 

The  powers  o'f  the  government  had  to  be  cur- 
tailed in  some  directions;  there  were  very  few 
things  the  government  could  not  do,  but  this  was 
one  of  them.  "They  might  give  you  some  form  of 
war  bonus,  or  remit  your  income  tax  during  the 
time  you  were  in  prison,"  suggested  Gratham.  "Of 
course,  you  might  wake  up  one  morning  to  find 
your  name  on  the  Honors  List." 

"We  had  an  Honors  List  at  Portland,"  replied 
John,  with  commendable  gravity;  "but  it  consisted 


206  THREADS 

solely  of  good-conduct  stripes.  I  collected  quite  a 
lot.  Boiled  down,  there  is  very  little  difference 
between  a  good-conduct  stripe  and  the  average 
knighthood — except  that  a  good-conduct  stripe 
has  to  be  earned  and  cannot  under  any  circum- 
stances be  wangled.  I  presume  there  was  some 
sort  of  equivalent  to  a  damehood  or  damedom,  or 
whatever  they  call  it,  on  the  feminine  side  of  the 
establishment,  but  I  never  learned  what  it  was." 

"One  must  have  a  certain  amount  of  comic  re- 
lief in  war-time,"  said  Chloe  demurely.  She  was 
thinking  of  one  or  two  of  her  friends  who  coveted 
the  new  distinction  and  hoped  to  achieve  it.  They 
had  not,  however,  reckoned  with  the  British  sense 
of  humor  which  has  frequently  destroyed  the 
priceless  boons  of  politicians  with  more  certainty 
and  promptitude  than  a  dozen  adverse  comments 
in  the  House  of  Commons. 

Lord  Gratham  sighed.  This  ridiculing  of  the 
gravity  of  titles  and  decorations  was  deplorable, 
but,  under  the  circumstances,  perhaps  to  be  under- 
stood. "I  see  your  point,"  he  admitted.  "But 
you  ought  to  get  a  pension.  I  myself  get  a  pen- 
sion. The  Attorney-General  who  led  for  the 
crown  became  Lord  Chancellor  for  a  week  or  two, 
and  he  gets  a  pension  of  five  thousand  a  year." 

"The  law,  my  dear  Gratham,  is  a  conspiracy  of 
the  strong  to  defend  themselves  from,  the  attacks 
of  the  weak,"  said  John. 


THREADS  207 

He  remembered  a  little  sermon  preached  by  a 
cynical  friend  with  whom  he  had  discussed  the 
question  of  pensions  while  at  Portland.  "If  you 
want  a  pension  you  can  live  on,"  his  friend  had 
asserted,  "you  must  go  into  politics." 

"I  think  it  might  do  some  of  our  politicians 
good  to  be  compelled  to  live  solely  on  their  own 
thoughts  for  fifteen  years,"  John  had  replied. 
"They  might  acquire  a  sense  of  proportion." 

His  friend  had  laughed  cynically.  In  his  opi- 
nion, nothing  would  ever  give  a  politician  a  sense 
of  proportion. 

John  had  owed  his  sentence  partly  to  political 
influence.  He  could  have  brought  evidence  that 
would  have  cleared  him  completely,  had  he  been 
allowed  to  do  so ;  but  as  this  would  have  involved 
an  apparently  friendly  power,  and  as  his  accusa- 
tions had  sounded — to  the  friends  of  Germany — 
like  the  ravings  of  a  sensational  novelist,  care 
had  been  taken  to  keep  such  evidence  from  appear- 
ing. "How  were  we  to  know  that  Germany  was 
spying  on  us  even  then?"  had  argued  the  ex-Home 
Secretary,  when  discussing  the  matter  with  Lord 
Gratham. 

They  could  have  known,  but  they  had  refused 
to  listen;  just  as,  a  year  or  two  later,  they  had 
refused  to  listen  to  a  great  soldier,  preferring  the 
soothing  syrup  of  lawyers  and  self-advertising 
politicians  with  spiritual  homes  upon  the  Spree. 


208  THREADS 

Had  John  been  allowed  to  lay  bare  all  the  facts, 
there  would  have  been  trouble  in  that  motley  camp 
whose  manifestations  are  picturesquely  known  to 
the  press  as  the  hidden  hand;  many  well-known 
people  would  have  been  implicated.  Germany 
was  a  good  paymaster.  In  whichever  direction 
John  had  turned,  he  was  held  up  by  a  stone  wall 
of  disbelief,  of  prejudice,  or  of  money  paid  for 
services  rendered.  Germany  cynical,  believing  in 
nothing  but  power  and  money,  had  determined  to 
put  John  out  of  the  way,  and,  as  usual,  had  suc- 
ceeded in  her  endeavors.  The  National  Liberal 
Club  was  Germany's  mouthpiece — a  clever  move 
on  Germany's  part,  for  the  English  members  of 
the  National  Liberal  Club — those  whose  names 
did  not  end  in  "stein"  or  "burg" — hated  the 
Northcliffe  press  more  than  anything  on  earth,  and 
the  Northcliffe  press  had  realized  that  war  was 
inevitable,  and  had  warned  a  stupid  and  unrespon- 
sive people,  time  and  again,  to  be  prepared. 

"I  am  sure  that  the  government  will  do  any- 
thing for  you  in  reason — to  avoid  censure.  I 
know  that  for  a  fact,"  explained  Gratham.  "I 
myself  am  sitting  on  several  royal  commissions, 
and  I  can  read  the  political  barometer." 

"I  don't  want  a  pension,"  protested  John;  "and 
I  warn  you,  Lord  Gratham,  I  will  not  be  created 
a  viscount." 

Lord  Gratham  pondered.     "There  is  n't  any 


THREADS  209 

other  form  of  compensation  I  can  think  of,"  he 
remarked,  "except  to  be  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey." 

"Thank  you,"  replied  John;  "I  was  buried  for 
fifteen  years  at  Portland." 

Gratham  protested  irritably.  John  might  at 
least  give  him  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  he 
had  been  instrumental  in  procuring  some  form 
of  compensation  for  the  error  he  had  been  un- 
fortunate enough  to  have  committed. 

"My  dear  Gratham,"  said  John  gravely;  "your 
egotism  shocks  me !  The  desire  to  make  repara- 
tion for  an  error  is  one  of  the  worst  forms  of 
self-indulgence,  and  I  refuse  to  entertain  it." 

"You  don't  have  to  live  with  my  wife,"  pro- 
tested Gratham  feebly.  John  had  never  denied 
that  life  was  not  entirely  devoid  of  compensa- 
tions. 

"If  I  don't  offer  reparation,"  complained  Grat- 
ham, "I  shall  never  know  a  moment's  peace." 

"It  is  your  duty  to  make  amends,"  said  Lady 
Gratham,  "and  the  least  you  can  do  is  to  consent 
to  this  marriage." 

"I  object  to  the  marriage — on  principle,"  pro- 
tested her  lord  and  master. 

"I  know  you  do,"  she  replied.  "But  if  they 
have  made  up  their  minds  to  get  married,  they 
will  get  married — in  spite  of  your  principles." 

"My   dear   Gratham,"    interrupted   John,    "I 


210  THREADS 

have  in  my  hand  something  more  powerful  than 
principles — a  check-book." 

If  this  remark  bordered  on  cynicism,  it  undoubt- 
edly hung  on  the  railings  of  truth.  "You  can  re- 
fuse your  blessing,"  he  added.  "A  blessing  has  no 
market  value.  /  can  refuse  them  an  allowance.  It 
is  a  detestable  form  of  tyranny,  I  admit,  but  far 
more  effective  than  a  pyrotechnic  display  of  ethics 
or  a  homely  appeal  to  sentiment." 

"Damn  it  all!"  exclaimed  Lord  Gratham.  "I 
can't  see  the  force  of  your  objections." 

"Arthur  and  Chloe  can,"  replied  John.  "Ex- 
cuse me,  Lady  Gratham!"  He  picked  a  white 
feather  from  the  boa  Lady  Gratham  had  laid 
on  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  and,  going  over  to  where 
Arthur  was  sitting  reading  the  Spectator,  he  pre- 
sented it  to  his  son  with  ironical  courtesy.  "That 
is  all  Arthur  gets  from  me  until  he  joins  the 
army,"  he  announced. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  during  which  Ar- 
thur became  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes. 

"That  makes  the  thirty-seventh,  doesn't  it?" 
asked  Chloe  calmly. 

"The  thirty-eighth,"  said  Arthur  conscienti- 
ously. 

John  turned  away  with  an  exclamation  of  dis- 
gust, and  found  himself  facing  Lord  Gratham. 

"I  'm  sorry,  Wynn,"  exclaimed  Gratham.  "It 
must  be  a  disappointment  to  you." 


THREADS  211 

"The  bitterest  one  I  have  had,"  said  John. 

"Look  here!  Damn  it  all!"  said  Gratham, 
after  his  wife  had  reminded  him  of  the  time. 
"What  you  said  to  me  about  heredity,  and  all 
that — did  you  mean  it?" 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  what  I  thought  of  your 
jokes — after  you  had  sentenced  me  to  be  hanged," 
replied  John  confidentially.  "But  I  was  n't  al- 
lowed. It  would  have  been  contempt  of  court.  I 
have  been  saving  it  up  for  fifteen  years,  and  now 
that  I  have  said  it,  I  feel  better." 

"Then,  if  it  was  n't  for  Arthur's  obstinacy — ?" 
Lord  Gratham  hesitated  and  looked  at  John  ques- 
tioningly. 

"If  it  was  n't  for  my  son's  refusal  to  do  his  duty, 
I  should  welcome  the  honor  of  an  alliance  with 
your  family,"  said  John. 

"That 's  very  handsome  of  you,  my  dear 
Wynn,"  admitted  Gratham  much  relieved.  "Look 
here,  Arthur!"  he  remarked,  after  they  had 
joined  the  others  in  the  garden;  "your  father  has 
behaved  like  a  sportsman.  Won't  you  follow 
suit?" 

"The  one  thing  we  pride  ourselves  upon  in  the 
Foreign  Office  is  that  we  never  bow  to  popular 
prejudice,"  said  Arthur. 

Lord  Gratham  was  annoyed;  he  turned  to  John 
with  great  cordiality,  however,  and  did  the  honors 


212  THREADS 

of  the  county.  "I  hope  we  shall  see  something  of 
you,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  observed.  "Do  you 
hunt?" 

"My  associates  have  been  more  hunted  than 
hunting,"  said  John. 

"I  beg  your  pardon !  Damned  thoughtless  ques- 
tion! Do  you  fish?" 

"Some  of  us  fished  for  tobacco — over  the  wall; 
but  we  caught  nothing  but  a  reprimand,"  replied 
John. 

"Hang  it  all!  Perhaps  you  play  chess?"  He 
looked  at  John,  then  added  quickly:  "No,  no,  I 
should  n't  have  asked  you." 

"I  have  one  accomplishment  you  didn't  succeed 
in  killing :  the  gift  of  laughter.  Life  is  full  of  little 
ironies,"  said  John. 

"Quite !  Quite  !  I  Ve  often  thought  that  my- 
self," agreed  Gratham,  slightly  overdoing  his 
anxiety  to  be  tactful. 

"Perhaps  Arthur  will  be  reasonable — when  he 
realizes  they  can't  live  on  his  pay,"  said  Lady 
Gratham  as  she  said  good-by.  "One  can't  afford 
high  principles  without  an  independent  income. 
Please  give  my  love  to  your  wife." 

"And  mine,"  echoed  Lord  Gratham.  "And 
mine!  Charming  woman — charming!  What  a 
surprise  your  coming  back  must  have  been !" 

"My  dear  Gratham,"  said  John  gravely,  "it 


CHAPTER  XV 

Poet:  Did  my  verses  please  you? 

Lesbia:  I  'm  sure  they  were  charming;  but  I  was  thinking  of  my  hus- 
band and  forgot  to  listen. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  3. 

SEPPY,  a  little  bewildered  and  extremely  annoyed 
by  circumstances,  had  walked  smartly  along  the 
lanes  and  over  the  fields  toward  Chalfont  St. 
Giles.  He  waited  in  the  porch,  turning  the  situa- 
tion over  and  over  in  his  mind.  The  fellow's 
home-coming  had  spoilt  everything.  It  had  upset 
Seppy's  position  in  the  house,  and  Amelia  most 
probably  would  be  almost  in  a  state  of  collapse. 
A  dreary  hymn,  dragged  out  to  about  twice  its 
intended  length  by  the  wailing  village  choir,  inter- 
rupted his  meditations.  One  or  two  stragglers 
pushed  open  the  door  furtively  and  escaped  into 
the  brilliant  sunshine.  Seppy  was  horror-stricken 
to  discover  himself  with  a  cigarette  in  his  hand. 
It  showed  to  what  an  extent  his  nerves  were 
jarred.  He  quickly  threw  it  away,  and  assumed 
an  attitude  of  respectful  devotion. 

Amelia  came  out  into  the  porch,  someone  hold- 
ing the  door  for  her.  Someone  always  held  the 
door  for  Amelia.  She  had  that  peculiar  gift  for 

213 


214  THREADS 

conferring  favors  when  she  received  them.  A 
man  who  had  held  open  the  door  for  her  would 
go  on  his  way  smiling:  she  could  be  very  gracious 
when  she  chose,  and  she  liked  people  to  enjoy 
doing  things  for  her. 

Seppy  was  astonished  at  the  picture  she  made 
as  she  stood  in  the  porch,  meditatively  pulling  on 
her  gloves  and  wondering  where  she  could  put 
her  contribution  to  the  offertory.  Seeing  a  box 
labeled  "Communications  for  the  Rector,"  she 
dropped  in  a  ten-shilling  note.  The  rector,  on 
discovering  it,  heaved  a  sigh  and  wished  that  all 
his  communications  were  of  the  same  nature. 

"My  dear  Amelia!"  cried  Seppy,  saluting 
smartly. 

Amelia  smiled.  How  faithful  Seppy  was!  If 
only  he  knew  when  to  keep  silent  and  when  to 
talk!  Just  now  she  wanted  to  think,  and  Seppy 
would  insist  on  talking;  she  knew  he  would  insist 
on  talking.  There  was  that  look  in  his  face — the 
look  of  the  chronic  chatterer  on  discovering  its 
prey.  And  it  was  so  cool  and  pleasant  here  under 
the  trees;  one  could  think  comfortably,  could  sur- 
render oneself  to  a  luxurious  couch  of  tumbling 
thoughts  and  emotions.  If  only  Seppy  had  not 
come  to  meet  her.  But  he  was  so  kind,  so  de- 
voted; he  had  been  such  a  good  friend.  John 
must  be  made  to  realize  what  a  good  friend  he 
had  been.  Why,  how  strange,  how  miraculous  it 


THREADS  215 

was  that  she  should  be  going  home  to  find  John 
there !  She  hoped  he  would  not  consider  Seppy  a 
tactless  intruder.  It  was  rather  tactless  of  him  to 
come  to-day.  But  of  course,  he  couldn't  .have 
known  or  he  would  n't  have  come.  Seppy  was  so 
considerate. 

They  passed  through  a  gate  and  followed  a 
path  across  some  fields.  Seppy's  staccato  tones 
came  faintly  to  her  ears.  She  suddenly  realized 
that  he  had  been  talking  ever  since  they  left  the 
church.  Seppy  was  useful  at  times;  he  could  go 
on  talking  for  ever  without  pausing  for  an  answer. 
Amelia  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  him  that  she 
knew  almost  instinctively  when  to  smile  in  agree- 
ment or  to  shake  her  head  in  disapproval  with- 
out in  the  least  knowing  what  he  was  talking  about. 
It  is  a  dangerous  art  for  an  over-confident  woman 
to  practise  on  the  kind  of  man  who  is  mean 
enough  to  realize  what  she  is  doing  and  to  take 
advantage  of  it — authors,  and  students  of  psy- 
chology, for  instance.  But  Seppy  was  simple- 
minded,  as  became  a  Staff  Officer,  and  he  never 
suspected  people  of  trying  to  fool  him. 

"The  greatest  shock  I  ever  experienced!  I 
assure  you,  I  feel  dazed  1"  he  was  saying,  tripping 
over  concealed  roots  in  his  anxiety  to  keep  in  step 
with  his  companion.  But  in  Amelia's  mind  ran 
one  phrase,  repeated  and  repeated,  sometimes 
wonderingly,  sometimes  soothingly,  sometimes  ter- 


216  THREADS 

rifyingly,  sometimes  triumphantly :  "He  has  come 
home — he  has  come  back  to  life !  And  he  will 
one  day  waken  me  with  a  kiss !" 

Seppy  meandered  on,  and  Amelia  caught  echoes 
of  his  talk. 

What  you  must  feel !  Poor  little  woman !  Poor 
little  woman  1"  He  tried  to  pat  her  hand.  To  be 
called  "poor  little  woman"  and  to  have  her  hand 
patted  in  sympathy,  when  her  heart  was  singing 
paeans  of  thanksgiving — like  that  beautiful  lark  up 
there  in  the  blue ! — was  a  little  too  much  even 
for  Amelia,  who  forgave  much  but  forgot  little. 

"Please,  Seppy,"  said  Amelia,  shivering  a  little 
as  he  touched  her.  She  did  n't  want  to  be  touched 
by  Seppy  any  more.  That  was  strange.  She  had 
rather  liked  his  taking  her  arm  and  squeezing  her 
hand  and  even  kissing  it;  but  now — she  didn't 
want  him  to  touch  her.  She  would  hate  John  to 
see  her  pawed  about  by  Seppy.  She  knew  what 
John  would  think  about  it;  she  meant  to  be  very 
frank  with  John — and  with  Seppy.  She  would 
like  to  be  frank  with  everyone,  but  it  was  so  much 
easier  not  to  be;  it  was  so  much  easier  to  have 
the  reputation  of  being  pleasant  to  everybody. 

"Ah !"  cried  Seppy,  a  little  hurt.  "I  irritate 
you !  I  worry  you !  It  is  my  desire  to  be  helpful  I 
Forgive  me !  I  find  it  hard  to  be  calm."  He  blew 
his  nose  violently,  and  stuffed  his  handkerchief  up 
his  sleeve. 


THREADS  217 

Amelia  wondered  what  the  lark  was  saying  as 
it  sang  its  wonderful  song  of  joy,  poised  up  there 
in  the  limitless  blue,  a  portent  of  spring,  of  hope, 
of  life,  of  fruition.  How  beautiful  was  the  Eng- 
lish country,  so  restful,  and  yet  sad — sad  by  its 
very  beauty.  The  peace  of  it!  How  horrible 
Portland  must  have  been!  She  shuddered,  and 
could  almost  hear  the  clank  of  the  chains,  the 
tramp  of  a  file  of  prisoners. 

Seppy's  spurs  were  rattling  and  he  was  trying 
to  keep  step,  talking  in  his  breathless,  staccato 
little  bursts.  "Every  government  must  commit  an 
occasional  injustice,"  he  was  saying;  "but  no  wise 
government  ever  admits  it." 

The  loneliness,  the  hopelessness  of  those  years, 
mused  Amelia.  She  had  kept  her  promise  not  to 
write.  Was  she  wise  to  have  kept  it?  Had  she 
not  betrayed  him  for  the  sake  of  her  children? 
Was  it  for  the  sake  of  her  children?  Why  had 
she  promised?  Why  had  she  kept  her  promise? 
But  he  understood;  he  always  understood  every- 
thing— even  when  she  failed  to  understand  him. 
She  hated  being  laughed  at,  and  John  had  such  a 
queer  sense  of  humor.  If  John  were  a  soldier,  and 
had  been  shot,  he  would  have  laughed  at  the  bul- 
let that  he  had  stopped.  It  was  so  like  John  to 
laugh  at  Seppy ;  but  Seppy  was  such  a  dear,  he  was 
too  nice  to  be  made  fun  of.  One  could  treat 
Seppy  like  a  faithful  retriever,  and  he  would  ap- 


2i8  THREADS 

predate  a  careless  pat  with  a  dog's  loyalty.  Of 
course,  John  was  different;  John  was  always  a  bit 
of  an  unknown  quantity — even  when  they  had 
been  so  much  one  with  each  other  that  the  rest  of 
the  world  had  not  appeared  to  exist.  What  was 
John  doing?  Had  he  resented  her  going  to 
church?  Ought  she  to  have  left  him  the  first 
morning  of  his  return?  She  had  felt  so  restless; 
action  appeared  to  be  a  necessity.  What  a  long 
way  off  it  seemed ! 

They  left  the  fields  and  turned  into  a  winding 
lane. 

"You  are  thinking,  Amelia?"  queried  Seppy 
sympathetically.  "You  are  perhaps  regretting?" 

"No,  Seppy,"  replied  Amelia  absently;  "I  was 
just  letting  you  talk.  I  know  it  soothes  you." 

"If  one  talks  enough,  one  occasionally  stum- 
bles on  to  a  profound  truth — perhaps  a  great 
thought,"  remarked  Seppy.  "Great  thoughts  are 
helpful  in  painful  situations.  Sometimes  any  kind 
of  remark  will  temporarily  ease  the  strain.  I  re- 
member hearing  a  story  of  the  £ommander-in- 
chief,  when  things  were  going  very  badly  with  us 
at  Mons,  and  he  was  waiting  to  hear  the  result 
of  an  order  he  had  given  that  might  or  might 
not  relieve  the  pressure  on  our  left.  He  stood, 
surrounded  by  his  staff.  You  would  think  they 
were  discussing  the  possibilities  of  failure,  won- 
dering what  was  going  to  happen.  But  no,  no  I 


THREADS  219 

Not  at  all!  The  commander-in-chief,  having  is- 
sued his  orders,  turned  to  one  of  his  staff  captains 
and  said :  'Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  kind  of 
boot-polish  your  man  uses?  I  should  like  to  get 
some!'  A  human  touch!  What?  It  eased  the 
strain !  It  brought  tragedy  down  to  an  every-day 
level,  and  they  all  felt  more  hopeful.  Oh,  Ame- 
lia !  What  can  I  say  to  calm  your  whirling  brain, 
to  soothe  your  shattered  nerves?" 

"There  's  nothing  you  can  do,  Seppy,"  replied 
Amelia,  "except  to  let  me  think  things  out — with- 
out interrupting  me  unnecessarily." 

Seppy  sighed.  The  word  in  season,  the  illu- 
minative phrase,  the  helpful  suggestion,  refused 
the  offices  of  his  usually  ready  tongue.  His  brain 
felt  a  little  dazed.  He  was  suffering  keenly  in 
sympathy  with  her;  but  he  was  suffering  still  more 
at  the  thought  of  what  he  himself  stood  to  lose. 
He  had  little  initiative,  and  had  grown  accustomed 
to  finding  a  solution  to  almost  every  problem  in 
army  orders  or  King's  regulations.  It  would  have 
simplified  the  situation  had  John  proved  to  be  a 
scoundrel,  or  even  a  man  coarsened  or  brutalized 
by  the  life  he  had  led  in  prison.  But  John  was 
unquestionably  a  gentleman,  extremely  present- 
able, and  quite  a  man  of  the  world.  Seppy,  like  so 
many  men  who  are  easy  to  get  on  with,  had  no 
morals,  merely  an  abnormally  active  conscience. 
For  twelve  years  he  had  placed  Amelia  on  a  pedes- 


220  THREADS 

tal;  he  had  made  himself  generally  useful  to  her, 
and  he  had  enjoyed  his  polite  slavery.  He  had 
been  very  faithful,  extraordinarily  considerate  of 
her  comfort.  He  was  very,  very  fond  of  her;  in 
fact,  he  loved  her — as  far  as  he  was  capable  of 
loving  anyone  other  than  himself.  The  problem 
worried  him,  the  tragedy  of  it  dazed  him,  the 
situation  was  altogether  too  much  for  him.  What 
were  they  to  do?  He  refused  to  give  her  up. 
Why  should  he  give  her  up?  Her  friendship,  her 
companionship,  meant  so  much  to  him.  Without 
her  life  would  be  dull  gray.  He  would  grow  old. 
No  longer  would  he  be  able  to  laugh  at  the  flying 
years.  No;  he  would  refuse  to  be  thrown  over. 

"He  said  he  would  fight  me  fairly  for  your 
affection,"  exclaimed  Seppy  suddenly. 

Amelia  looked  up,  a  little  startled.  Then 
she  smiled  and  sighed.  John  was  always  chiv- 
alrous. 

"How  can  he  fight  me  fairly?  The  handicap 
is  all  on  his  side,"  continued  Seppy. 

"I  refuse  to  be  taken  for  granted — by  anyone," 
Amelia  protested.  "My  children  take  me  for 
granted :  that  is  a  penalty  a  woman  pays  to  nature. 
But  it  is  her  own  fault  if  her  husband  or  her 
lover  takes  her  for  granted." 

She  paused  for  a  moment  and -faced  him,  then 
spoke  earnestly,  almost  passionately.  "A  woman 
who  respects  herself  must  be  won — and  held — 


THREADS  221 

every  minute  of  every  day.  I  give  nothing,  but  I 
respond  to  everything." 

Seppy  looked  at  her,  still  more  perturbed  and 
puzzled.  She  was  not  behaving  as  he  had  anti- 
cipated she  would.  He  found  it  impossible  to 
understand  her  attitude.  Perhaps  she  was  over- 
done, worn  out;  possibly  she  was  a  little  hysterical, 
otherwise  she  would  not  speak  of  things  concern- 
ing which  a  woman  was  supposed  to  show  con- 
siderable reticence. 

He  tried  to  soothe  her;  but  Amelia,  being  a 
woman,  instinctively  realized  what  he  was  think- 
ing. 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  hysterical,"  she  told  him. 
"I  was  never  more  sure  of  myself." 

This  was  true.  She  was  very  much  amused  by 
his  conscientious  desire  to  calm  her.  She  was 
beginning  to  be  very  sorry  for  Seppy.  A  psycho- 
logist would  have  realized  that  John's  stock  was 
rising  rapidly. 

Seppy  was  trying  to  keep  in  step  with  her,  and 
she  found  his  efforts  in  this  direction  a  trifle  irri- 
tating. Amelia  was  a  graceful  walker,  and  she 
rarely  soiled  her  shoes,  even  in  muddy  weather. 
Seppy  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  regulation 
pace,  and  he  invariably  stepped  off  with  the  left 
foot.  He  found  Amelia's  graceful  but  erratic 
methods  supremely  difficult  to  imitate.  For  him  it 
was  one  of  those  days  when  worries  accumulated, 


222  THREADS 

and  everything  appeared  to  go  wrong.  Moist 
beads  of  perspiration  appeared  on  his  brow;  his 
cap  blew  off ;  he  dropped  his  cane ;  his  Sam  Browne 
worried  him;  he  had  used  his  last  match. 

Seppy  had  always  accepted  the  old  English  idea 
that,  when  a  man  married  a  woman,  he  won  her — 
that  he  could  not  possibly  go  on  winning  her  again, 
every  day,  Sundays  included,  or  he  would  have 
little  time  to  spare  for  golf.  Besides,  it  was  not 
playing  the  game.  When  a  woman  said  "I  will !" 
she  surrendered  finally.  When  a  man  said  "I 
will!"  he  frequently  thought  he  meant  it.  In 
some  cases  he  did. 

Seppy's  ideas  concerning  women  always  amused 
Amelia;  it  was  obvious  that  he  had  acquired  his 
views  of  her  sex  from  a  perusal  of  the  mid-Victo- 
rian novels.  "You  may  think  a  woman  surren- 
ders, Seppy;  but  she  doesn't  know  herself  when 
she  has  surrendered — finally.  I  shall  never  sur- 
render," she  added  quickly,  almost  fiercely,  "until 
I  'm  old  and  gray  and  toothless,  until  I  look  my 
age,  until  the  pressure  of  my  hand  evokes  no 
answering  pressure,  but  only  a  smile  of  pity." 

Seppy  sighed.  It  was  Sunday,  and  Amelia  had 
been  to  church.  He  would  scarcely  have  thought 
so,  judging  by  her  conversation.  The  more  he 
saw  of  women,  the  less  he  understood  them.  He 
was  amazingly  ignorant  concerning  matters  of  sex 
— there  was  very  little  mention  of  sex  in  army 


THREADS  223 

orders — and  he  had  no  desire  to  learn  more.  He 
was  fastidious,  and  fundamentally  decent;  he  was 
a  sentimentalist,  but  had  never  been  anything 
worse.  He  had  never  looked  for  rewards ;  he  had 
been  content  to  fetch  and  carry.  People  laughed 
at  him.  Fortunately,  he  was  ignorant  of  the  fact. 
Nature  is  cruel  in  setting  a  seal  on  men  who  are 
constitutionally  decent  and  remain  unmarried;  but 
nature  never  considers  the  individual,  only  the 
race. 

"Amelia,"  he  told  her,  "you  are  a  thousand 
women  rolled  into  one  !" 

"Every  woman  is,"  replied  Amelia.  "But  it 
takes  a  clever  man  to  know  which  woman  is  having 
her  innings  on  any  particular  day."  She  laughed 
mischievously.  "What  am  I  to-day,  Seppy?" 

Seppy  was  not  very  subtle,  but  he  possessed  a 
certain  amount  of  tact.  "You  are,  as  ever,  the 
woman  I  adore,"  he  answered,  with  a  fresh  at- 
tempt to  get  into  step  with  her. 

Amelia  smiled.  Seppy  was  like  so  many  men 
who,  when  all  the  women  who  helped  to  make  up 
the  woman  she  was,  happened  to  be  chattering 
at  the  same  time,  instead  of  helping  one  of  them 
to  dominate,  put  it  all  down  to  hysteria,  and 
imagined  that  a  compliment,  or  a  kiss,  would  stop 
the  chatter.  She  sighed  as  she  caught  sight  of  her 
house  through  a  gap  in  the  wood,  and  wondered 


224  THREADS 

whether  John  knew  more  about  women  than  Seppy 
did. 

John  met  them  half-way  down  the  drive.  "It 
must  have  been  a  short  sermon,"  he  said. 

It  is  frequently  something  of  a  problem  for  a 
woman  to  decide  which  is  the  most  aggravating 
trait  in  a  man — too  much  self-confidence  or  too 
much  humility;  but  a  man's  arrogance  is  so  often 
the  result  of  accepted  views  and  proved  ethics 
sent  journeying  along  a  straight  line  of  rails, 
whereas  a  woman's  philosophy  owes  its  existence 
to  things  and  events  that  touch  her  personally, 
that  move  in  a  circle  of  which  she  herself  is  the 
center.  To  a  woman  a  man's  ethics  are  narrow 
in  their  logical  certainty,  and  cut  and  dried  in 
their  application — her  own  being  guided  by  cir- 
cumstances. A  logical  man  can  be  amazingly  irri- 
tating at  times.  But  overdone  humility  has  its 
disadvantages.  A  humble  man  rarely  hits  back, 
and  refuses  to  argue.  He  sighs.  And  what  can 
be  more  irritating,  or  more  fundamentally  arro- 
gant, than  the  sigh  of  humility?  Women  may  be 
uncertain,  perplexing,  changeable,  illogical;  they 
may  jump  to  conclusions  unreasonably,  and  dis- 
like a  woman  because  her  skirt  hangs  down  at 
the  back,  or  a  man  because  of  his  manner  of 
eating  hot  buttered  toast.  But  men  are  ten  times 
more  exasperating  on  account  of  their  pedantic 
craze  for  being  just  and  reasonable. 


THREADS  225 

John  hated  the  line  of  conduct  he  had  deter- 
mined to  take;  but,  having  made  up  his  mind  to 
it,  he  was  obliged  to  see  it  through.  And  Amelia's 
good  resolutions — her  longing  to  give,  give,  give, 
and  to  go  on  giving,  the  woman's  privilege  and 
tragedy — all  the  thoughts  that  had  come  to  her 
as  she  listened  to  the  song  of  the  lark,  and  heard 
Seppy's  babble  without  heeding  it — her  determina- 
tion to  break  down  the  fifteen-year-old  wall  that 
had  divided  her  from  John — the  spontaneity  of 
her  surrender  was  checked  by  her  husband's  de- 
tachment, by  his  courtesy  to  herself  and  his  pa- 
tronage of  Seppy. 

Amelia  shrank  back  into  herself.  The  prince 
had  not  yet  kissed  her  into  wakefulness. 

"I  did  n't  wait  for  the  sermon,"  she  explained. 
"I  could  n't  attend  to  the  service,  so  I  came  out, 
and  found  Seppy  waiting  in  the  porch." 

"Splendid  fellow!"  said  John.  "Some  men  are 
born  to  wait,  while  others  have  waiting  thrust 
upon  them."  He  did  not  realize  that  he  was  talk- 
ing in  a  style  that  had  gone  out  of  fashion  with 
the  nineteenth  century. 

"Would  you  have  waited — on  the  chance  of  my 
coming  out  early?"  she  asked. 

"No,  my  dear!"  replied  John.  "I  should  have 
sent  in  word  that  I  did  n't  intend  to  wait  any 
longer." 


226  THREADS 

Seppy  was  a  little  shocked.  "In  church?"  he 
protested. 

"A  woman  does  n't  cease  to  be  a  woman — even 
in  church,"  said  John. 

"Where  did  you  learn  that?"  inquired  Amelia. 

"I  have  in  me  the  makings  of  a  lot  of  little  en- 
tertainments," replied  John,  his  eyes  twinkling. 
"I  have  had  quite  a  busy  morning.  I  have  made 
the  acquaintance  of  my  son  James,  and  of  your 
friend  here,  and  I  have  refused  to  countenance 
Arthur's  engagement." 

Amelia  looked  up,  astonished.  "You  have  re- 
fused?" she  cried. 

"Lord  and  Lady  Gratham  have  been  here.  They 
sent  you  their  love,"  explained  John. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  upset  everything, 
John,"  said  Amelia,  with  a  sigh. 

"Believe  me,  I  shall  do  nothing  unreasonable," 
replied  John. 

Amelia  frowned.  "What  will  people  think?" 
she  protested. 

"It  really  does  n't  matter  what  people  think," 
said  John.  "It 's  doing  the  things  they  think  that 
matters.  I  have  refused  them  an  allowance." 

"But  they  can't  live  on  Arthur's  pay,"  exclaimed 
Amelia. 

"I  am  quite  sure  they  have  no  intention  of  living 
on  Arthur's  pay,"  replied  John. 


THREADS  227 

Amelia  looked  up  inquiringly.  "But  if  you  have 
refused  them  an  allowance — " 

"I  don't  intend  to  give  it;  I  was  just  wondering 
how  they  proposed  to  get  it,"  said  John  specu- 
latively. 

"I  can't  help  thinking  you  are  behaving  unrea- 
sonably," protested  Seppy. 

John  looked  at  him,  a  dangerous  light  in  his 
eyes.  "It  is  n't  your  pidgin,"  he  said. 

"I  am  an  intimate  friend  of  the  family,"  cried 
Seppy,  turning  to  Amelia  for  support.  He  was 
genuinely  angry  with  John  for  behaving  like  an 
autocrat  at  such  short  notice,  and  he  wanted  Ame- 
lia to  realize  that  she  had  a  friend  who  would 
fight  for  her,  in  spite  of  everything. 

Amelia  called  up  her  first  line  of  reserves.  She 
took  out  her  handkerchief.  "Everything  was  go- 
ing so  smoothly,"  she  sobbed. 

Steppy  trembled  with  emotion ;  he  wanted  to  tell 
Amelia  how  much  he  sympathized  with  her,  how 
anxious  he  was  to  help  her.  It  unmanned  him  to 
see  a  woman  in  tears. 

John  chuckled.  He  was  behaving  like  a  brute, 
and  he  knew  it;  but,  while  deploring  the  necessity, 
he  pressed  home  the  attack  to  its  logical  conclu- 
sion. He  was  out  for  victory,  and  he  meant  to 
achieve  it.  The  enemy  could  retire  with  all  the 
honors  of  war,  but  his  guns  must  be  spiked  and  his 
arms  given  up. 


228  THREADS 

"When  a  woman  cries,  it  means  that  she  has 
had  to  call  up  her  last  line  of  defense,  and  that 
victory  is  in  sight,"  he  explained. 

"You  are  heartless,  sir !  Absolutely  heartless !" 
protested  Seppy. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  remain  there  any 
longer;  he  was  too  thoroughly  upset.  He  would 
go  back  to  the  War  Office  and  do  some  work. 

He  did  very  little  work  at  the  War  Office  that 
afternoon,  but  consoled  himself  later  on  with  tea 
and  muffins  at  his  club.  He  returned  to  the  attack 
the  following  day. 

John  accompanied  his  wife  to  the  house.  Each 
was  silent,  thinking  hard,  wondering,  alert.  On 
reaching  the  living-room,  John  threw  himself  into 
the  chair  and  took  up  the  Observer. 

"Nothing  to  report,"  he  read  aloud.  "There 
was  an  unimportant  raid  on  our  front-line 
trenches,  but  the  enemy  was  forced  to  retire  with 
some  losses." 

Amelia  frowned.  "What  do  you  mean,  John  ?" 
she  asked,  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"Nothing,  my  dear,"  replied  John,  his  tone  a 
masterpiece  of  innocence.  "I  was — er — quoting 
the  official  report!" 

Amelia  looked  at  him  with  grave  disapproval, 
silently  gathered  up  her  gloves  and  prayer-book, 
and  went  upstairs  to  her  room.  John  threw  down 
the  paper,  made  a  movement  to  follow  her,  then 


THREADS  229 

turned  to  the  window  and  laughed — a  little  de- 
fiantly. 

"Well,  Seppy,  my  boy  I"  he  murmured.    "What 
about  it?" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Princess:  Father!     I  have   listened   to  this   man   who  is  rousing  the 

country!     He"  speaks  the  truth. 
King:  He  will  suffer  for  it.    And  so  will  you — for  listening. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  4. 

ARTHUR  did  not  return  to  lunch.  Obsessed  by 
the  brilliant  idea  that  had  occurred  to  him,  he 
went  up  to  town — after  lunching  with  Chloe  and 
her  parents — and  indulged  in  the  popular  British 
sport  known  as  wire-pulling,  having  previously 
arranged  with  Chloe  to  meet  him  on  an  early  train 
the  following  morning.  Neither  Olive  nor  Jimmy 
put  in  an  appearance  until  dinner-time.  John  and 
Amelia  lunched  together  tete-a-tete;  they  spoke  of 
things  of  little  importance.  After  lunch  Amelia 
retired  to  her  room  to  lie  down,  but  she  found 
it  impossible  to  rest.  She  sat  down  and  wrote  to 
Seppy,  telling  him  that  it  would  be  wiser  for  him 
not  to  come  down  to  Chalfont  for  some  time. 
Then  she  tore  up  the  letter,  having  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  would  be  easier  to  allow  things 
to  take  their  course.  Instead  of  trying  to  govern 
circumstances,  she  would  allow  circumstances  to 
govern  her. 

John    read    the    papers,    and    went    carefully 


THREADS  231 

through  some  bound  volumes  of  Punch  from  the 
year  1902  up  to  the  present  date.  He  wanted  to 
realize  what  the  world  had  been  thinking,  saying, 
and  doing.  Incidentally,  he  thought  a  great  deal 
about  Amelia.  Had  he  exchanged  one  prison  for 
another?  From  being  the  slave  of  rules  and  regu- 
lations, was  he  to  be  the  slave  of  convention  and 
pretense  ?  It  was  easier  to  criticize  than  to  create, 
he  thought;  easier  to  judge  others  than  oneself, 
to  invent  a  standard  of  living  than  to  live.  Would 
it  not  be  wiser  to  take  the  world  as  one  found  it, 
and  to  accept  the  views  of  the  majority?  Why 
worry?  Reformers  had  battered  their  heads 
against  the  wall  of  public  opinion  and  popular 
prejudice  for  centuries,  with  little  injury  to  any 
but  themselves.  Why  be  a  reformer?  Why  not 
live  on  the  surface,  as  the  others  did,  and  cease 
to  criticize  life  and  one's  neighbor's  mode  of  liv- 
ing? The  accepted  way  was  the  easier  way;  Ame- 
lia had  followed  it,  his  children  were  following  it,, 
their  friends  likewise.  Was  he  to  be  the  discord 
in  the  harmony  of  their  own  particular  circle? 
They  had  achieved  1917  gradually  and  by  a 
natural  process;  he  had  stumbled  upon  it  suddenly, 
and  had  paused  to  draw  breath.  The  man  who 
kicks  continually  only  wears  out  his  boots  and  must 
then  go  bare-foot.  Why  worry?  The  majority 
was  always  right.  Good  Lord!  He  must  be 
growing  old  if  he  was  meditating  bowing  to  pop- 


232  THREADS 

ular  prejudice.  Agreeing  with  the  majority  was 
the  first  sign  either  of  age  or  of  intellectual 
atrophy.  One  must  worry — if  one  were  an 
optimist  and  placed  one's  faith  in  the  world's  up- 
ward tendency.  The  majority  was  never  right. 
The  world  was  reformed,  its  thoughts  guided,  its 
instincts  controlled,  by  the  few — the  few  who 
think  sanely,  imaginatively,  selflessly.  While  he 
had  a  kick  left  in  him  he  would  never  give  in.  By 
ideals  he  lived  and  with  ideals  he  would  die;  and 
to  hell  with  the  pessimists  who  croaked  a  policy 
of  laissez-faire. 

England  had  survived  her  politicians,  her 
profiteers,  her  pacifists,  her  academic  intellectuals; 
she  had  even  survived  her  general  officers  and 
senior  admirals.  The  English  were  crazy;  but 
when  once  you  realized  the  fact,  accepted  it,  and 
laughed  at  it,  you  got  along  very  well.  If  only 
they  were  not  so  self-complacent.  His  own 
friends — the  men  of  breeding  and  the  men  of  let- 
ters— were  awfully  decent,  on  the  whole;  narrow 
perhaps,  and  prejudiced  undoubtedly,  but  funda- 
mentally decent.  He  could  n't  stand  the  middle 
classes,  but  that  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at; 
they  had  n't  sufficient  breeding  to  conceal  their 
selfishness,  their  rapacity,  their  self-complacence 
<and  ignorance;  they  aped  their  betters,  and  their 
intonations  were  jarring;  they  were  so  afraid  of 
giving  themselves  away  that  they  gave  nothing 


THREADS  233 

away;  they  overran  the  army,  the  navy,  the 
church,  the  bar,  the  House  of  Lords,  and  the  once 
exclusive  clubs.  In  fact,  they  overran  England. 
He  had  a  great  admiration,  an  affection,  for  the 
lower  classes,  though  he  hated  the  phrase.  They, 
too,  were  fundamentally  decent.  But,  unfortu- 
nately, England  was  governed  by  the  pretenders 
— the  people  who  were  neither  "fish,  nor  fowl,  nor 
good  red-herring." 

Perhaps  the  war  would  alter  things.  But  had 
it  altered  them  at  all?  Nearly  all  the  decent 
men  had  been  killed;  every  decent  man  who  was 
at  all  fit  had  joined  up  in  1914.  Those  who  joined 
up  under  the  Derby  Scheme,  or  who  had  later  on 
been  conscripted,  were  almost  as  bad  as  those  who 
had  not  joined  up  at  all.  What  sort  of  future 
would  there  be  for  England?  Those  who  had 
prospered,  those  who  would  survive  the  war  and 
have  sufficient  money  to  indulge  in  the  luxury  of 
children,  would  be  the  shirkers,  the  slackers,  the 
profiteers,  those  who  had  taken  advantage  of  their 
country's  needs  to  bleed  their  country's  ex- 
chequer. The  people  who  mattered  were  fighting 
— for  a  pittance;  even  if  they  returned,  the  ma- 
jority would  return  crippled  in  health,  in  financial 
circumstances.  Their  breed  would  die  out.  It 
was  a  ghastly  outlook.  One  could  only  prophesy 
a  country  run  for  and  by  the  middle  classes.  The 
flower  of  the  youth  of  a  generation  were  wiped 


234  THREADS 

off  the  slate.  What  would  the  children  of  the 
"indispensables"  be  like?  He  shuddered,  and 
thought  of  his  son. 

He  had  been  right  to  protest,  to  take  a  strong 
attitude.  Amelia  was  annoyed,  hurt;  but  what 
else  could  he  do? 

No,  the  outlook  was  not  hopeful;  but,  unless 
the  government  taxed  brains  and  intelligence  out 
of  existence,  he  would  not  despair. 

Amelia  came  down  to  tea.  She  was  over-tired 
and  over-strained,  consequently  she  chattered 
about  little  things.  John  enjoyed  it;  he  realized 
that  Amelia  was  dreading  a  pause  in  the  conver- 
sation, and  wanted  to  keep  off  fundamental  things 
for  the  moment.  He  told  her  stones  of  prison 
life,  of  the  men  he  had  been  herded  among,  of 
the  routine,  the  lack  of  humanity,  the  dull,  drab, 
dreary  ugliness  of  everything;  but  he  told  it  with 
so  much  humor  that  Amelia  was  both  interested 
and  amused.  But  John's  manner  of  telling  his 
story  only  emphasized  the  tragedy  of  it.  If  a 
man  can  joke  about  hell,  thought  Amelia,  would 
he  find  heaven  tiresome? 

They  strolled  about  the  garden  after  tea,  and 
Amelia  displayed  her  roses  with  some  pride. 
John  breathed  deeply  and  realized  the  peace  of 
it  all.  Twilight  came,  that  magic  link  between 
day  and  night.  The  country  was  placidly  dozing; 
it  was  an  eternal  chess-board  on  which  everybody 


THREADS  235 

made  their  moves — kings,  queens,  bishops,  pawns 
— and  then  others  took  their  places.  But 
the  board  remained — England  remained.  Men 
fought,  gambled,  schemed,  pulled  wires,  hoarded, 
grumbled,  endured;  the  centuries  slipped  by;  but 
England  was  always  England,  and  always  would 
be.  A  tiny  country,  mapped  out  in  miniature 
squares,  exquisite,  hideous,  lonely,  crowded,  with 
little  hills  that  assumed  the  grandeur  of  moun- 
tains, little  woods  that  seemed  like  forests, 
streams  dignified  by  the  names  of  rivers,  long 
winding  roads  with  hedges  under  which  nestled  a 
thousand  wild  flowers,  ugly  mean  streets  and 
hideous  jerry-built  villas,  a  country  swept  by 
biting  east  winds  and  blustering  southwest  gales, 
exquisitely  clear  under  a  frosty  sky,  sleepily  rest- 
ful under  a  summer  sun,  depressing  beyond  words 
under  low  gray  clouds:  but  always  England: 
There  was  magic  in  the  word.  Half  the  world 
spoke  of  England  as  home.  John  laughed:  he 
paid  the  average  Englishman's  most  glowing 
tribute  to  his  native  land.  "It  is  n't  half  bad," 
he  said. 

And  so  to  dinner,  with  open  windows — for  the 
Daylight-Saving  Bill  was  in  operation,  and  lights 
were  unnecessary;  afterward  a  record  or  two  on 
the  gramophone — Jimmy  at  the  wheel;  and  then 
to  bed. 

Amelia  lay  awake,  thinking  of  the  things  she 


236  THREADS 

had  meant  to  say  to  John  and  had  not  said;  long- 
ing to  break  down  the  barrier — the  intangible 
something  that  still  lay  between  them,  yet  unwil- 
ling to  acknowledge  its  presence  for  fear  of 
hurting  him. 

Monday  was  rather  an  exciting  day,  on  the 
whole.  John  went  over  to  Chenies  to  see  the 
Grathams,  and  stayed  to  lunch.  Chloe  had  gone 
to  town,  and  Lady  Gratham  made  spasmodic 
appearances;  but  Gratham  was  an  entertaining 
host,  and  he  and  John  got  on  very  well  together. 

The  humor  of  the  situation  occasionally  struck 
Lord  Gratham;  which  led  to  his  relieving  himself 
by  giving  vent  to  chuckles  and  guffaws — for  which 
he  apologized.  During  the  afternoon  the  tele- 
phone called  him,  and  he  returned  to  his  wife, 
who  was  presiding  over  the  tea  things,  with  a 
face  puckering  like  a  baby's. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  inquired,  pausing 
with  the  sugar-tongs  in  the  air. 

"I  no  longer  have  a  daughter,"  replied  her 
husband  grimly.  "She  has  been  married — by 
special  license — to-day — to  your  son,"  he  added, 
turning  to  John. 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Archibald!"  said  Lady 
Gratham,  continuing  to  pour  out  tea.  "You  have 
a  daughter  who  knows  her  own  mind,  and  that  is 
more  than  I  did  at  her  age.  Sugar,  Mr.  Wynn?" 

"No,  thank  you !"  replied  John.     He  had  con- 


THREADS  237 

ceived  a  higher  opinion  of  his  son  than  he  had 
ever  had  before.  Arthur  had  done  exactly  what 
John  himself  would  have  done — under  the  circum- 
stances. 

Lord  Gratham  had  objected  to  the  engage- 
ment; John  had  objected  to  it,  too.  John's  objec- 
tion was  that  Arthur  had  not  worn  the  King's 
uniform,  Lord  Gratham's  that  John  had. 
Though  Gratham  realized  that  John  was  inno- 
cent, he  found  it  hard  to  forgive  him  for  being 
innocent — much  as  he  liked  John  personally. 
John  had  made  him  think;  he  had  made  him  ques- 
tion his  whole  career  as  a  judge.  Gratham  was  a 
Tory,  and  disliked  questioning  anything.  John 
had  made  him  wonder  how  many  other  innocent 
people  had  been  sentenced  owing  to  his  lack  of 
imagination  and  ignorance  of  psychology;  in  fact, 
John  was  a  walking  conscience  to  Gratham,  who 
was  terrified  of  publicity. 

On  returning  home,  John  found  his  household 
somewhat  perturbed  by  the  news  that  Arthur  had 
conscientiously  telephoned  to  them.  John  ex- 
plained its  reception  by  the  Grathams. 

Amelia  was  worried.  Her  house  had  been  in- 
vaded by  journalists — the  news  of  John's  release 
having  reached  Fleet  Street  early  that  morning, 
and,  the  news  from  the  front  being  of  the  "noth- 
ing to  report"  order,  it  was  too  good  a  story  to 
be  missed. 


238  THREADS 

"There  have  been  twenty-three  of  them  here 
this  afternoon,"  confessed  Amelia  plaintively. 
"I  said  you  had  gone  away,  so  they  all  took 
photographs  of  the  house,  and  of  Parsons,  and 
of  the  Jersey  cows,  and  all  expressed  their  regret 
at  missing  you — all  except  someone  from  the 
Morning  Megaphone,  who  is  still  in  the  library. 
I  sent  him  in  some  tea.  Parsons  says  he  is  sitting 
there  smoking  your  cigarettes  and  reading  a  book 
of  Marie  Corelli's.  I  said  I  would  let  him  know 
when  you  came  back." 

She  handed  John  a  card  on  which  was  en- 
graved: "H.  Simms,  the  Morning  Megaphone" 

"Doesn't  he  want  to  photograph  the  cows?" 
asked  John. 

"Oh,  he  has  already  done  that,"  replied 
Amelia.  "Parsons  told  him  the  story  of  you  and 
the  pianola;  he  said  it  was  priceless,  and  gave 
her  half  a  crown.  Parsons  has  done  very  well 
for  herself,  and  her  stories  improved  as  the  day 
progressed." 

John  chuckled.  He  liked  Amelia's  attitude; 
there  was  a  kind  of  comic  pathos  in  her  voice 
that  was  extremely  attractive.  "Seppy  arrived 
just  now,"  continued  Amelia;  "so  I  sent  him  in 
to  talk  to  this  H.  Simms." 

Seppy  was  rather  like  a  jack-in-the-box,  thought 
John;  the  snubs  of  yesterday  were  the  stimulants 
of  to-day.  He  had  arrived,  beautifully  groomed 


THREADS  239 

and  smiling,  about  four  o'clock,  and  had  stumbled 
across  Jimmy  near  the  front  gates. 

"Hallo,  Seppy,  old  man!"  was  Jimmy's  greet- 
ing. "Cheerio!  Have  you  seen  the  mater?" 

Seppy  explained  that  he  was  looking  for  her; 
he  had  been  told  that  she  was  somewhere  in  the 
garden. 

"I  say,  then  you  have  n't  heard  the  news?"  ex- 
claimed Jimmy. 

"What  news?"  asked  Seppy  anxiously.  A 
thousand  conjectures  raced  through  his  brain,  all 
of  them  wrong. 

"About  Arthur  and  Chloe,"  replied  Jimmy, 
with  a  cynical  chuckle.  "Arthur  's  managed  to 
wangle  a  special  license  out  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury,  and  he  and  Chloe  have  just  got 
spliced.  Jolly  sporting  of  them?  What?  Hope 
they  won't  regret  it." 

"Good  gracious  me!"  said  Seppy,  greatly  per- 
turbed. "What  does  your  mother  say?" 

"Oh,  she  always  says  the  same  thing,"  replied 
Jimmy  genially.  "You  know  the  sort  of  thing: 
'I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty  to  the  children,  and 
this  is  how  I  'm  treated.'  She  always  takes  that 
line  when  anything  unusual  happens." 

Seppy  coughed.  "Where  is  your  father?"  he 
inquired. 

"Over  at  the  Grathams',  trying  to  get  old 
Gratham  to  fork  up  something,  I  suppose,"  re- 


240  THREADS 

plied  Jimmy,  with  that  peculiar  frankness  for 
which  the  younger  generation  is  celebrated. 

"Do  you  know,  Seppy?  he's  rather  decent; 
knows  the  proper  way  to  treat  a  fellow,  and  all 
that.  I  rather  like  him." 

Seppy  pondered  over  this  admission  with  some 
seriousness. 

"You  know,  Seppy,  old  man,"  continued  Jimmy, 
gravely  contemplating  the  gallant  Colonel,  "you 
know,  I  can't  help  thinking  it  'd  be  more  sporting 
of  you  to  declare  your  innings  closed !" 

Seppy  fidgeted.  This  was  too  much.  From  a 
boy  to  whom  he  had  shown  exaggerated  indul- 
gence, tool  It  was  a  little  thoughtless,  a  little 
unfeeling,  distinctly  ungracious. 

"You  Ve  had  a  dashed  good  run  for  your 
money,"  said  Jimmy,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  as  he  dug  the  newly  graveled  path  with 
his  heel,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  the  head  gar- 
dener, who  was  tying  up  some  rambler  roses  in 
the  vicinity;  "and  it 's  about  time  you  gave  some- 
one else  a  show!" 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  advise  you  not  to  meddle 
with  what  does  n't  concern  you !"  protested  Seppy. 

"It  does  concern  me,"  replied  Jimmy.  "It 
concerns  me  devilish  close.  That 's  why  I  'm 
advising  you  to  clear  out." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  your  mother  that  I 
am  here  ?"  said  Seppy  rather  irritably. 


THREADS  241 

"Parsons  told  her  some  time  ago.  She  said 
you  were  to  wait,"  explained  Jimmy,  unperturbed. 

This  explanation  scarcely  increased  Seppy's 
self-confidence.  He  took  out  his  cigarette-case 
and  offered  it  to  his  young  mentor. 

"No,  thanks!"  said  Jimmy.  "The  .guv'nor 
says  I  '11  never  get  my  flannels  if  I  smoke  before 
I  'm  eighteen :  bad  for  the  wind  and  all  that." 

"That 's  what  /  always  told  you,"  protested 
Seppy. 

"I  know,"  replied  Jimmy;  "but  you  're  different. 
Naturally,  a  fellow  can't  help  treating  what  his 
guv'nor  says  with  a  certain  amount  of  respect." 

"I  was  under  the  impression  that  the  modern 
school-boy  respected  no  one  and  nothing,"  said 
Seppy  tartly. 

Jimmy  chuckled;  he  had  drawn  Seppy  beauti- 
fully. The  poor  old  chap  was  getting  quite 
wrathy.  Besides,  it  was  all  rot  about  a  fellow 
respecting  no  one.  He  could  n't  help  respecting 
anyone  who  played  the  game — chaps  like  Haig, 
and  Beatty,  and  George  Hirst,  and — well,  his 
father  had  played  the  game,  and  a  fellow  could  n't 
help  respecting  him.  "Of  course,  I  would  'nt  let 
him  know  it  for  anything,"  explained  Jimmy.  "It 
might  make  him  stick  on  side.  But  we  had  a  bit 
of  a  yarn  yesterday,  and  he  was  so  jolly  decent 
that  I — well,  I  made  up  my  mind  I  'd  see  him 
through  and  back  his  side." 


242  THREADS 

Seppy  blew  his  nose  violently  and  tried  to  col- 
lect his  scattered  self-confidence.  But  he  had  one 
more  ordeal  to  face — two,  in  fact — before  being 
sent  into  the  library  to  entertain  H.  Simms  of  the 
Morning  Megaphone. 

He  met  Olive  in  the  hall.  "Hallo,  Seppy! 
Mother  will  be  in  directly!"  was  her  greeting. 
"Run  along,  Jimmy!  I  want  to  talk  to  Seppy," 
she  added. 

"I  Ve  just  been  having  a  little  heart-to-heart 
talk  with  him  myself,"  explained  Jimmy,  grinning. 

"Look  here,  Seppy!"  said  Olive,  as  they  made 
their  way  into  the  living-room;  "I  Ve  been  think- 
ing about  things." 

"My  hat!"  cried  Jimmy,  with  assumed  aston- 
ishment. 

Harrow  was  snubbed  properly  by  Olive,  who 
then  turned  to  Seppy.  "We  Ve  liked  having  you 
about  the  house,  and  you  Ve  been  jolly  useful," 
she  explained;  "but — well,  Seppy!  I  think  you'd 
better  go  on  leave." 

Seppy  was  certainly  being  pounded  on  all  sides ; 
his  position  was  becoming  untenable.  He  must 
either  make  a  demonstration — or  withdraw.  "Is 
that  what  your  mother  thinks?"  he  inquired 
huffily. 

"It 's  what  we  think,  Seppy,"  replied  Olive  re- 
proachfully. Mother  is  n't  capable  of  managing 


THREADS  243 

her  own  affairs;  she  was  never  taught  clear  think- 
ing." 

Seppy  protested.  Really,  these  young  peo- 
ple— 

"My  dear  Seppy!  You  know  perfectly  well 
that  when  we  say  a  thing  we  mean  it,"  said  Olive 
coolly. 

"I  refuse  to  be  dictated  to  by  a  couple  of  chil- 
dren," cried  Seppy  indignantly. 

Olive  smiled.  Of  course,  he  was  perfectly  at 
liberty  to  please  himself,  but  it  was  just  as  well 
to  let  him  know  how  they  felt  about  it. 

"For  twelve  years,"  protested  Seppy  senti- 
mentally, "I  have  been  almost  a  father  to  you." 

"You  meant  well,  Seppy,"  admitted  Olive 
kindly.  "But  now  that  father  has  come  home, 
we  feel  he  has  more  right  to  parental  privileges 
than  you  have.  Another  thing,  Seppy,"  she 
added,  smiling  deliciously;  "we  like  him.  Don't 
we,  Jimmy?" 

Jimmy  wriggled  with  embarrassment.  "He  's 
quite  decent,"  admitted  the  young  Harrovian. 
Hang  it!  Why  must  girls  always  say  the  things 
a  fellow  only  thinks? 

"So  we  felt  we  'd  better  warn  you — in  case 
mother  tried  to  persuade  you  to  keep  on  hanging 
around,"  concluded  Olive  judicially. 

This  was  the  last  straw.  Seppy  was  not  likely 
to  hang  around  where  he  was  not  wanted.  Where 


244  THREADS 

was  Amelia?  Why  did  she  not  come  and  rescue 
him  from  this  equivocal  conversation? 

She  came  at  last,  "i  'm  sorry  to  have  kept  you 
waiting,"  she  remarked. 

Was  she  sorry?  Seppy  wondered.  She  did 
not  appear  to  be  very  much  perturbed.  "I  am 
accustomed  to  be  kept  waiting,"  he  replied,  with 
a  flavor  of  martyrdom  in  his  voice.  This  was 
scarcely  true;  a  colonel  is  rarely  kept  waiting — 
especially  when  he  wears  red  tabs. 

"You  have  heard  about  the  wedding?"  in- 
quired Amelia  after  Parsons  had  brought  in  the 
tea. 

"I  must  say,  it  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  of 
an  official  in  the  Foreign  Office  doing  anything  on 
impulse,"  said  Seppy.  "Do  you  expect  him  back 
to-night?" 

"I  wonder  if  he  '11  bring  her  with  him,"  mut- 
tered Jimmy  reflectively. 

"I  know  I  'd  jolly  well  see  /  was  n't  left  behind 
on  my  wedding-day,"  exclaimed  Olive. 

Blushing  brides  are  out  of  date.  How  can  a 
bride  blush  when  she  faces  a  battery  of  cameras? 
Besides,  a  blush  implies  self-consciousness.  The 
new  generation  has  its  faults,  but  self-conscious- 
ness is  scarcely  one  of  them.  And  marriage  is  no 
longer  a  step  into  the  unknown.  Six  shillings 
judiciously  expended  can  automatically  raise  the 
curtain;  and  even  sevenpence  goes  a  long  way. 


THREADS  245 

Consequently,  one  meets  many  a  married  couple 
who  are  friends  as  well  as  lovers.  When  things 
can  be  discussed  instead  of  whispered,  progress 
heaves  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  Mrs.  Grundy  sends 
frantic  telegrams  to  her  friend  and  counselor, 
whose  address  is  rarely  mentioned  in  polite  so- 
ciety. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


Reformer:  Who  is  this  person? 
Secretary:  He  comes  as  an  Ambassador. 
Reformer:  What  Autocrat  does  he  represent? 
Secretary:  The  mightiest  of  all — Public  Opinion. 

Pro  Patrio,  Act  4. 

SEPPY  had  come  down  determined  to  assert  him- 
self; he  wanted  his  position  in  the  household  to 
be  very  clearly  defined.  But  it  was  scarcely  an 
easy  task  to  put  his  determination  into  words 
without  hurting  Amelia  and  jeopardizing  his  own 
desires.  He  was  even  a  little  uncertain  regard- 
ing those  desires.  Just  how  far  he  was  prepared 
to  go  was  a  poblem  he  had  resolutely  refused  to 
envisage.  He  had  grown  accustomed  to  his 
standing  in  the  household,  and  he  disliked  change 
of  any  kind.  In  his  moments  of  quiet  reflection 
he  thought  of  himself  as  a  true  type  of  the  con- 
stant lover,  unselfish,  chivalrous;  but  would  his 
sense  of  chivalry  be  equal  to  the  demands  that 
might  be  made  upon  it?  His  obvious  line  of  ac- 
tion would  be  to  retire,  and  to  nurse  his  regrets  in 
silence.  But  Seppy  was  too  much  of  an  egotist 
to  renounce  anything  he  had  set  his  heart  upon, 
unless  forced  to  do  so  by  circumstances.  On  the 

246 


THREADS  247 

other  hand,  suppose  Amelia  discovered  that  she 
cared  for  him  more  than  she  did  for  her  husband : 
what  then  would  be  his  line  of  action?  Would 
he  be  ready  to  face  publicity,  the  horrors  of  the 
divorce  court,  for  Amelia's  sake?  He  loved 
Amelia;  he  would  go  on  loving  her — always. 

"I  hope  this  has  not  been  too  much  of  a  shock?" 
inquired  Seppy  sympathetically,  after  Olive  and 
Jimmy  had  disappeared  from  the  room. 

Amelia  smiled.  "I  think  it  will  be  an  excellent 
thing  for  Arthur,"  she  replied.  "He  is  so  accus- 
tomed to  getting  his  own  way." 

"But  they  can't  live  on  four  hundred  a  year," 
protested  Seppy. 

Amelia  smiled.  She  and  John  had  married  on 
less  than  that.  It  had  been  a  struggle,  but,  look- 
ing back,  those  had  been  the  happiest  days  of 
her  life.  They  had  both  believed  so  in  the  future ; 
they  had  faced  life  full  of  hope,  full  of  confidence. 
When  Arthur  was  born,  family  friends  had  pulled 
long  faces  and  had  exclaimed  at  their  lack  of 
wisdom;  but  John  and  Amelia  were  not  sufficiently 
fashionable  to  have  acquired  those  views  that 
have  since  become  so  popular.  To  them,  children 
were  of  more  importance  than  smart  clothes  and 
a  semi-fashionable  address.  One  doubts  if  they 
would  ever  have  learned  wisdom  in  that  respect. 

But  Arthur  and  Chloe  belonged  to  a  different 
generation;  they  prided  themselves  on  their  com- 


248  THREADS 

mon  sense,  and  they  cried  for  self-development — 
in  other  words,  a  good  time.  Amelia  was  suf- 
ficiently a  woman  of  the  world  to  refrain  from 
argument. 

Seppy  rose  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire- 
place. "Amelia,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  want  to  dis- 
cuss a  matter  that  concerns  ourselves  very  closely. 
I  want  to  know  what  my  position  is  going  to 
be?" 

Amelia  looked  at  him  gravely.  He  did  not 
realize  that  he  was  being  tried,  judged,  and  sen- 
tenced. Amelia  was  too  much  of  a  woman  to 
allow  him  to  guess  that  he  was  being  tested. 

"What  do  you  want  it  to  be?"  she  asked. 

Seppy  hesitated.  He  was  anxious  to  explain 
his  ideas,  but  he  found  it  extremely  difficult  to 
make  a  start. 

"You  know  that  I  love  you,  don't  you?"  he 
said. 

Amelia  smiled.  "How  much  do  you  love  me?" 
she  inquired. 

Seppy  frowned.  A  man  likes  to  have  such 
things  taken  for  granted;  he  considers  that  the 
words  "I  love  you"  should  cover  all  possibilities. 

"Do  you  love  me  well  enough  to  be  callous  of 
public  opinion?"  Amelia  looked  innocent  enough 
as  she  asked  this  question.  It  was  difficult  to 
tell  whether  she  was  serious  or  merely  making 
fun  of  him. 


THREADS  249 

"Of  public  opinion?"  cried  Seppy  scornfully. 
He  was  about  to  express  his  contempt  for  public 
opinion  when  his  native  caution  suddenly  asserted 
itself.  "What  exactly  do  you  mean,  Amelia?" 
he  added. 

Some  sixteen  years  before  he  had  been  asked 
the  same  question,  and  had  very  unjustly  been 
accused  of  butterfly  proclivities.  He  denied  that 
he  had  ever  been  a  butterfly;  he  possessed  a  genius 
for  single-minded  devotion  to  one  woman — at  any 
rate,  to  one  woman  at  a  time.  And  as  long  as 
she  remained  kind,  so  long  would  Seppy  remain 
constant. 

"Would  you  think  the  world  well  lost  for  me  ?" 
asked  Amelia  in  a  voice  that  was  low  and  provo- 
cative. 

"Undoubtedly!"  cried  Seppy,  with  admirable 
fervor. 

He  meant  it,  too — with  certain  reservations. 
Since  he  held  a  staff  appointment,  he  would  rather 
not  lose  it  entirely.  He  would  not  mind  losing 
the  world,  as  long  as  the  world  remained  in 
ignorance  of  the  fact  that  he  had  lost  it.  He  had 
a  horror  of  bad  form  or  of  achieving  a  reputa- 
tion for  what  is  politely  termed  "gallantry."  He 
was  prepared  to  sacrifice  a  great  deal  on  the  altar 
of  Amelia's  love ;  but,  owing  to  the  fact  that  some 
of  his  forebears  had  been  born  on  the  wrong — 
or  the  right — side  of  the  Tweed,  he  was  occa- 


250  THREADS 

sionally  visited  by  spasms  of  caution,  and  desired 
to  know  exactly  how  far  and  to  what  he  was 
committing  himself. 

Amelia  watched  him  with  some  amusement  and 
a  little  chagrin;  then  she  quietly  slipped  the  pin 
from  her  bomb  and  threw  it  at  his  head. 

"If  I  loved  you,  do  you  think  I  could  go  on 
living  with  him  and  receiving  you  here  as  a  visi- 
tor?" she  asked. 

It  was  true  that  John's  home-coming  had  com- 
plicated things.  Seppy  was  suffering  from  an  un- 
usual feeling  of  embarrassment.  He  no  longer 
felt  at  home  in  the  house;  his  position  was  a  trifle 
invidious.  Seppy  had  the  true  egotist's  love  of 
talking  about  himself  in  the  ordinary  way,  but 
he  was  feeling  a  curious  reluctance  to  indulge  in 
his  favorite  amusement  at  the  moment.  "I  have 
always  said,  Amelia,  that  with  me  it  must  be  all 
or  nothing,"  he  asserted. 

"Which  do  you  want  it  to  be  ?"  inquired  Amelia, 
with  apparent  innocence. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  little  cruel  of  her  to  play  with 
him,  but  what  reasonable  woman  could  resist 
such  an  opportunity? 

"Need  you  ask?"  protested  Seppy,  with  some 
warmth.  Then  he  thought  unconsciously  of  his 
high  reputation,  his  assured  position,  and  his  com- 
fortable mode  of  living,  and  a  doubt  of  his  own 
worthiness  to  live  on  such  romantic  heights  in- 


THREADS  251 

sidiously  invaded  his  well-protected  self-esteem. 

Amelia  looked  at  him  curiously.  "Suppose  I 
had  to  choose  between  you  and  John?"  she  asked. 

Seppy  muttered  something  about  twelve  years' 
devotion,  but  Amelia  interrupted  him. 

"My  choice  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the 
past,"  she  said.  "If  it  had,  I  should  choose  John. 
Nothing  counts  so  much  with  women  as  the  right 
word  at  the  right  moment.  You  take  it  for 
granted  that  your  twelve  years'  devotion  should 
be  rewarded;  John  takes  it  for  granted  that,  as  I 
am  his  wife,  I  shall  go  on  being  his  wife." 

She  clenched  her  fists  and  dug  them  into  the 
cushions. 

"I  don't  want  a  husband — in  the  academic 
sense,"  she  cried.  "I  want  a  lover  who  will  carry 
me  off  my  feet — in  spite  of  my  years." 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow, a  little  ashamed  of  her  outburst. 

"It  is  difficult  to  think  of  you  with  grown-up 
children,"  reflected  Seppy. 

Amelia  smiled.  "You  have  a  happy  knack  for 
paying  pretty  compliments,"  she  said. 

Seppy  frowned.  Amelia  was  at  times  a  little 
difficult  to  follow;  she  jumped  from  one  subject 
to  another;  her  thoughts  turned  somersaults — 
they  were  one  moment  exquisite  in  repose,  and 
the  next  they  were  cutting  capers  with  a  grin. 


252  THREADS 

She  was  unexpected.  Seppy  rather  prided  himself 
on  this  discovery. 

"A  house  is  so  empty  without  a  man  in  it," 
continued  Amelia.  "There  are  certain  things  a 
woman  can  never  master — such  as  rates  and  taxes 
and  the  choosing  of  wine  and  tobacco.  I  gradu- 
ally drifted  into  leaving  these  things  to  you.  I 
hated  having  to  do  them  myself.  And  I  liked 
having  you  to  escort  me  when  I  went  to  theaters 
and  concerts.  A  woman  alone  can  never  get  the 
best  seats,"  she  added,  a  little  ruefully,  unaware 
of  the  subtilty  of  her  remark.  "Even  the  most 
modern  girl  likes  to  have  a  man  to  take  her  about. 
It  was  because  I  realized  you  were  fond  of  me 
that  I  let  you  do  so  much  for  me.  I  knew  it 
pleased  you;  did  n't  it?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  very  attractive 
smile.  When  a  woman  has  made  up  her  mind 
that  the  time  has  come  for  an  admirer  to  cease 
admiring  at  close  quarters,  she  does  her  best  to 
assist  distance  to  lend  enchantment  to  the  memory. 
And  in  that  is  she  not  wise?  It  is  kinder  to  the 
man,  and  kinder  to  herself.  After  all,  the  future 
is  largely  built  on  memories.  She  would  like 
Seppy  to  remember  his  days  of  devotion  to  her 
with  kind  thoughts,  and  never  with  bitterness. 
She  would  like  him  always  to  think  of  her  as  a 
young  and  attractive  woman.  She  would  like  him 
sometimes  to  feel  a  little  sad  at  having  lost  her, 


THREADS  253 

that  their  friendship  had  been  thoroughly  worth 
while. 

"You  have  given  me  all  the  happiness  I  have 
ever  enjoyed,"  said  Seppy  mournfully.  His  re- 
mark was  not  strictly  true,  but  there  are  times 
when  good  intentions  are  better  than  cold  facts. 

"And  yet,  I  am  a  middle-aged  woman,"  sighed 
Amelia. 

"Not  to  me,"  protested  Seppy  genuinely. 

Seppy  had  never  realized  that  she  was  growing 
older,  and  that  had  made  her  feel  young.  And, 
because  she  felt  young,  she  wanted  every  minute 
of  what  youth  was  left  to  her.  She  wanted  to 
go  on  being  desirable.  So  many  women  still  be- 
lieved in  hell,  and  in  a  God  who  was  always  wait- 
ing to  stab  at  their  little  vanities. 

"You  are  very  understanding,"  said  Amelia. 
"If  it  had  n't  been  for  you  I  should  probably  have 
become  terribly  religious  and  made  myself  a  nui- 
sance to  the  children." 

Seppy  looked  at  her,  a  trifle  shocked. 

"Most  women  are  afraid  to  think  about  re- 
ligion," she  added.  "That 's  why  they  go  to 
church." 

"That  sounds  almost  blasphemous,"  protested 
Seppy.  "I  go  to  church,  but  I  never  think  of 
questioning  what  I  'm  believing.  The  whole  thing 
is  cut  and  dried." 

"Don't  you  understand?"  cried  Amelia,  almost 


254  THREADS 

fiercely.  "Nothing  is  cut  and  dried — nothing, 
nothing!"  She  went  on,  her  voice  low  and 
vibrant,  her  fingers  moving  nervously.  "If  I  only 
knew  what  John  really  thought  about  everything, 
I  should  not  be  so  restless.  When  he  went  away 
I  was  a  girl,  and  he  was  a  young  man,  full  of 
vitality  and  high  spirits.  People  might  say  that 
the  wisest  thing  would  be  to  accept  the  situation 
and  to  be  content  with  each  other's  friendship ! 
But  I  can't — I  can't  accept  it !  You  have  got  ac- 
customed to  seeing  me  grow  a  little  older  each 
year.  He  has  n't.  It  must  have  been  a  shock 
to  him  when  he  saw  me  on  Saturday.  Time  is 
much  more  cruel  to  a  woman  than  it  is  to  a  man. 
Oh,  yes,  it  is !"  she  added,  seeing  his  look  of  sym- 
pathetic protest.  "It 's  a  tragic  moment  when 
a  woman  realizes  she  is  no  longer  wanted." 

Seppy  reflected.  "Just  as  a  man  gets  a  shock 
the  first  time  a  boy  of  twenty  calls  him  'sir,'  "  he 
suggested. 

"My  dear  Seppy,  you  are  always  so  sympa- 
thetic!" said  Amelia,  a  little  mockery  in  her  voice. 
"If  I  were  a  man,"  she  added  scornfully,  "I 
would  n't  sympathize  with  women." 

"What  would  you  do?"  asked  Seppy  curiously. 

"I  'd  go  round  with  a  club,"  replied  Amelia 
fiercely. 

Later  on  Seppy  had  been  sent  into  the  library 
to  entertain  H.  Simms.  John  and  Amelia  dis- 


THREADS  255 

covered  him  there,  vainly  endeavoring  to  make 
himself  agreeable  to  a  stout  woman  of  forty-five 
with  a  blustering  and  rather  patronizing  manner 
— what  a  school  for  journalists  describes  in  its 
prospectus  as  "an  assured  manner,"  and  under- 
takes to  teach  in  twelve  lessons.  ("Mention  this 
advertisement!") 

H.  Simms  was  the  sort  of  woman  the  average 
man  would  run  a  mile  to  avoid  meeting.  She  was 
so  abnormally  stout,  so  unnecessarily  aggressive, 
so  absurdly  like  a  fat  man  in  petticoats — but  for 
the  fact  that  a  man's  weight  is  nearer  to  earth. 
She  had  such  an  unnaturally  deep  voice  that  it  dis- 
turbed one's  nerves;  when  she  interviewed  a  man, 
he  would  say  anything  in  order  to  get  it  over.  So 
many  women  of  that  type  and  age  secure  positions 
on  daily  papers.  Perhaps  they  scare  the  editors. 

John  could  imagine  her  writing  some  such 
gossipy  paragraph  as  this:  "I  met  Lord  Algy 
Torkum  at  the  Royal  Garden  Party  on  Wednes- 
day. Everyone  one  knows  was  there.  'Jinks' — 
Lord  Algy  is  always  'Jinks'  to  his  intimates — told 
me  a  rather  naughty  story  which  I  can't  refrain 
from  telling  you.  It  was  about  a  fascinating 
revue  star,  who,  by  the  way,  tells  me  that  she 
has — "  And  so  forth. 

Her  skirt  was  too  long  where  it  should  have 
been  short,  and  too  short  where  it  should  have 
been  long,  perfectly  cut,  but  badly  put  on.  Her 


256  THREADS 

coat  was  tight — too  tight — and  her  hat  hard  and 
hideously  unbecoming.  Her  manner  was  that  of 
an  autocrat.  Her  class  was  shown  by  her  devo- 
tion to  buttered  toast,  strong  tea  with  sugar  in 
it,  and  the  novels  of  Miss  Marie  Corelli.  She 
preferred  muffins  "nice  and  juicy" — with  heaps  of 
butter;  but  one  must  suffer  for  the  sake  of  the 
war.  In  her  spare  time  she  produced  columns  of 
"Economical  Recipes"  containing  dozens  of  eggs 
and  quarts  of  cream.  As  a  majority  of  her 
readers  had  never  seen  a  quart  of  cream  in  one 
jug,  they  were  immensely  flattered  at  the  impli- 
cation that  cream  in  such  quantities  was  their 
customary  allowance.  She  was  kind  to  her 
mother. 

"Excuse  me!"  inquired  H.  Simms.  "Mr. 
Wynn?" 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  John. 

"I  represent  the  Morning  Megaphone"  said 
H.  Simms.  It  was  an  unnecessary  remark.  On 
seeing  H.  Simms  one  naturally  thought  of  the 
Morning  Megaphone. 

"I  did  n't  know  you  were  a  woman,"  explained 
Amelia,  a  little  tactlessly,  John  thought.  He 
himself  was  n't  certain,  but  he  had  concealed  the 
fact. 

"I  'm  the  M.  M.'s  star  reporter,"  announced 
H.  Simms,  taking  out  a  note-book  to  refresh  her 
memory.  She  had  interviewed  many  celebrities 


THREADS  257 

in  her  time,  and  had  occasionally  mixed  them  up 
in  her  copy.  She  was  celebrated  in  Fleet  Street 
for  having  on  one  occasion  given  the  credit  of  an 
epigram  of  Mr.  Horatio  Bottomley's  to  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw.  She  had  interviewed  both  gentle- 
men on  the  same  day,  so  there  was  some  excuse 
for  this  unfortunate  slip  of  the  pen. 

"You  have  met  my  wife — and  Colonel  Pack- 
inder?"  inquired  John  politely. 

"I  have  met  Colonel  Packinder  at  the  Press 
Bureau,"  replied  H.  Simms  grimly.  "I  used  a 
quotation  from  Kipling's  'Recessional' — 'The  cap- 
tains and  the  kings  depart' — in  a  descriptive 
article,  and  Colonel  Packinder  made  me  cut  out 
'captains'  and  'kings,'  lest  it  should  give  informa- 
tion to  the  enemy." 

"I  consider  that  episode  has  been  grossly  ex- 
aggerated," protested  Seppy  huffily. 

"It  could  n't  be,"  replied  the  lady  journalist 
drily. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Miss  Simms?"  asked 
John. 

H.  Simms  sat  down,  crossed  her  legs,  and 
glanced  through  her  notes.  "Was  there  anything 
you  objected  to  in  the  prison  system?"  she  in- 
quired, moistening  her  pencil  absent-mindedly. 
It  was  an  indelible  pencil — she  afterward  won- 
dered why  everybody  stared  at  her  in  the  train. 

John  lit  a  cigarette  and  offered  the  box  to  the 


258  THREADS 

interviewer,  who  took  one  mechanically.  "There 
is  one  very  great  deprivation  the  prisoners  have 
to  suffer,"  he  explained,  with  an  ironical  gravity 
that  completely  escaped  the  lady's  notice.  "They 
are  forbidden  to  take  the  Morning  Megaphone." 
He  shook  his  head  sadly.  "How  can  their  minds 
expand  and  their  moral  tone  develop,  when  they 
are  denied  the  offices  of  our  most  popular  news- 
paper?" 

"That 's  a  very  good  point,"  said  H.  Simms, 
impervious  to  irony. 

John,  thus  encouraged,  continued  in  the  same 
vein.  "Another  thing!  It  is  very  distressing  for 
a  man  unaccustomed  to  early  rising  to  be  com- 
pelled to  get  up — without  any  early  tea,  mind  you ! 
— in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  and  to  be 
expected  to  retire  before  it  is  dark.  It  doesn't 
tend  to  make  him  contented  with  his  surround- 
ings. Why,  even  the  conscientious  objectors  are 
permitted  to  subscribe  to  their  favorite  organs  of 
public  opinion  I"  he  added,  with  the  kind  of  in- 
dignation that  finds  an  outlet  in  the  correspond- 
ence columns  of  the  daily  press. 

H.  Simms  chronicled  the  indignation,  but  failed 
to  observe  the  twinkle  that  accompanied  it. 

"Well,  Mr.  Wynn,"  she  remarked,  "the  Morn- 
ing Megaphone  is  prepared  to  pay  you  a  shilling 
a  word  for  the  sole  serial  rights  of  your  story — 


THREADS  259 

to  be  published  in  instalments — with  photo- 
graphs." 

John  smiled.  It  was  extremely  kind  of  the 
Morning  Megaphone. 

"I  have  the  contract  here;  it  only  needs  your 
signature,"  said  H.  Simms,  depositing  a  document 
on  the  table. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  contribute  to  the  hilarity 
of  the  British  breakfast-table,"  protested  John. 

H.  Simms  looked  up  quickly.  "Have  you  been 
offered  better  terms?"  she  asked. 

John  shook  his  head.  "It  is  n't  a  question  of 
good  terms,  but  of  good  taste,"  he  said. 

"Any  reasonable  man  would  prefer  doubtful 
taste  at  a  shilling  a  word  to  fastidiousness  at  a 
guinea  a  column,"  argued  the  journalist. 

"I  dislike  publicity,"  John  protested. 

"My  dear  sir!  Publicity  is  what  everyone  is 
trying  to  obtain.  We  offer  it  to  you — at  a  profit," 
explained  H.  Simms. 

"Perhaps,  John,  for  the  sake  of  our  chil- 
dren— "  suggested  Amelia.  Like  most  women, 
she  entertained  a  certain  amount  of  awe  and  re- 
spect for  the  press.  To  have  seen  something  in 
the  paper  was  to  have  insured  its  reliability. 

"For  the  sake  of  our  children,"  replied  John 
quietly,  "I  would  rather  the  whole  episode  were 
forgotten." 

"Impossible  !"  cried  H.  Simms.    "It 's  too  good 


26o  THREADS 

a  story!  The  press  will  be  black  with  it  to- 
morrow. A  great  wrong  has  been  done  you,  Mr. 
Wynn,  and  it 's  the  business  of  the  press  to  see 
that  such  a  thing  does  n't  occur  again." 

"I  realize  that  the  press  is  the  watch-dog  of 
the  nation,"  murmured  John. 

H.  Simms  became  practical.  "The  Morning 
Megaphone  will  give  you  one  and  threepence  a 
word  and  free  insurance,  not  only  against  hostile 
aircraft,  but  against  our  own  anti-aircraft  guns," 
she  announced. 

"Hang  it  all,  sir!"  cried  Seppy,  "those  are 
deuced  generous  terms.  You  Ve  only  got  to 
slang  the  government  sufficiently  hard,  and  they  '11 
create  a  new  department  and  make  you  its  per- 
manent head.  There  are  still  the  Ritz  and  the 
Carlton  and  the  Piccadilly  waiting  to  be  com- 
mandeered. Personally,  I  should  choose  the 
Ritz." 

One  of  John's  chief  disappointments  on  return- 
ing to  life  was  to  hear  that  Sir  William  Gilbert 
had  passed  away;  but  he  was  delighted  to  realize 
that  the  Gilbertian  spirit  still  flourished,  particu- 
larly in  departmental  administration.  "Is  the 
country  run  entirely  on  Gilbertian  lines?"  he  in- 
quired innocently. 

"The  country  is  run  on  the  lines  laid  down  by 
my  editor,"  replied  H.  Simms  promptly. 

John  contemplated  the  idea  of  emigration.    He 


THREADS  261 

had  come  back,  expecting  to  creep  into  a  quiet 
corner,  but  he  found  himself  welcomed  by  the 
brass  band  of  the  press — to-day's  sensation  until 
to-morrow's  knocked  him  from  his  pedestal. 

"You  're  good  for  three  weeks — unless  peace 
is  declared,"  announced  H.  Simms.  "And  the 
Morning  Megaphone  has  no  intention  of  allowing 
peace  to  be  declared  until  the  nation  has  had 
most  of  its  habits  upset." 

"I  'm  sorry  you  had  to  wait  so  long,"  said 
John,  rising. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  replied  H.  Simms, 
pocketing  her  note-book  and  taking  the  hint. 
"But  about  that  story,"  she  added,  handing  him 
the  document  she  had  thrown  on  the  table.  "Here 
is  the  agreement  for  you  to  sign.  We  must  pre- 
pare the  public  for  your  revelations.  We  Ve  got 
to  start  by  telling  them  what  we  are  paying  you; 
that  always  impresses  them.  Money  talks,  Mr. 
Wynn,  louder  every  day.  Even  the  Morning 
Megaphone  is  double  its  original  price  and  gives 
half  its  original  reading  matter.  A  celebrity  is 
made  by  advertisement,  and  a  newspaper  by  ad- 
vertisements. Good  evening!" 

H.  Simms  habitually  bowed  herself  out  with 
an  attempt  at  epigram.  She  had  been  taught  this 
at  the  school  for  journalists.  She  walked  to  the 
station  feeling  very  pleased  with  herself.  She 
was  the  kind  of  woman  who  drew  vitality  from 


262  THREADS 

the  people  she  came  in  contact  with.  What  ex- 
hausted her  victims  refreshed  her.  One  can  tell 
the  true  egotist  by  his  or  her  vampire-like  quality. 

"It 's  funny  she  never  married,"  said  John, 
tearing  the  agreement  into  spills. 

"Good  Lord,  Wynn,"  cried  Seppy,  "you  're 
destroying  the  contract!" 

"What  did  you  expect  me  to  do  with  it?"  asked 
John. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

An  hour,  once  sped,  that  ne'er  can  be  recalled, 
O  Love!     If  that  same  hour  could  be  prolonged 
Through  all  eternity,  it  would  be  too  short! 

Pro  Patrio,  Act  4. 

JOHN  was  one  of  those  men  who  believed  in 
progress,  but  not  in  vulgarity;  in  publicity,  but 
not  in  advertisement;  in  the  freedom  of  the  press, 
but  not  in  pandering  to  the  public  appetite  for 
sensation.  "You  won't  get  anything  if  you  take 
that  line,"  Seppy  had  remarked  reproachfully; 
but  John  wanted  nothing  but  leave  to  reconstruct 
his  life  without  undue  interference.  It  might  be 
much  simpler  to  go  with  the  crowd  and  to  think 
as  they  did,  for  a  minority  had  always  been  un- 
popular; but  was  not  popularity  the  requiem  of 
moral  and  intellectual  development?  One  had 
but  to  read  popular  authors,  to  listen  to  popular 
politicians  and  publicists,  to  realize  that  one  took 
away  nothing  but  eyewash,  bunkum,  dope.  There 
were  a  number  of  people  in  the  country  who  went 
about  distributing  eyewash  in  barrels  to  a  credu- 
lous public,  a  public  who  wanted  eyewash  and 
were  not  satisfied  until  they  got  it.  The  hatred 

263 


264  THREADS 

of  truth  was  a  disease  from  which  the  majority 
were  suffering. 

When  a  man  came  along  who  told  the  truth,  the 
majority  immediately  conspired  to  squash  him, 
to  silence  him,  and  to  warn  others  who  might  en- 
deavor to  follow  in  his  footsteps.  Novels  of 
sticky  sentimentality,  with  heroes  of  the  "This 
style  275.  6d."  brand  vied  in  popularity  with  those 
of  the  newer  school — weak  imitations  of  La 
Comedie  Humaine  without  the  genius — novels 
that  indulged  in  intimate  revelations  of  the  pas- 
sions, animal  chiefly,  of  dull  and  uninteresting 
members  of  the  lower  middle  class,  novels 
steeped  in  "sex  interest,"  that  discussed  in  detail 
the  physical  results  of  propinquity,  and  reveled  in 
lurid  passages  of  overdone  reticence  concerning 
the  thoughts,  temptations,  and  desires  of  semi- 
decadent  young  men  who  meditated,  and  occa- 
sionally indulged  in,  nocturnal  excursions  to  the 
attics  where  servant  girls  of  a  coming-on  disposi- 
tion were  accustomed  to  take  their  rest.  The 
public  considered  this  to  be  realism  of  a  wonderful 
kind,  and  the  books  in  question  were  read  largely 
by  childless  women  and  middle-aged  maiden 
ladies.  Novelists  of  intelligence  who  told  the 
truth  without  hiding  it  in  a  purple  handkerchief 
were  considered  "shocking" ;  but  the  newer  school 
writers  dressed  up  their  offerings,  not  to  shock  or 
to  "warn,  but  to  appeal  to  the  public's  worst  in- 


THREADS  265 

stincts.  "Suggestion"  was  the  dominant  note  in 
the  plays  presented  in  those  early  days  of  the 
war,  particularly  in  those  amazing  medleys  of 
tinkling  tunes  and  inanities  called  "revues."  A 
straight  play  had  small  chance  of  getting  a  hear- 
ing. "We  want  to  be  amused,"  was  the  cry; 
and  the  public  had  been  educated  to  find  amuse- 
ment only  in  bad  taste  and  to  laugh  only  at  obvi- 
ous suggestiveness.  The  press  either  set  or  fol- 
lowed the  tone  of  the  nation.  A  few  papers  tried 
to  set  it,  but  the  majority  were  content  to  follow, 
either  to  save  trouble  or  in  answer  to  urgent 
"memos"  from  the  managers  of  the  advertising 
departments. 

Why  were  the  majority  of  our  great  criminals 
so  often  exceptionally  able  men?  Because  they 
had  brains,  and,  realizing  that  brains  were  of  very 
little  use  in  the  majority  of  professions,  they  had 
adopted  a  career  of  crime  in  order  to  avoid  intel- 
lectual inertia.  If  a  few  score  of  our  brilliant 
criminals,  thought  John,  could  change  places  with 
an  equal  number  of  our  abnormally  conscientious 
Cabinet  Ministers,  the  result  would  be  electrify- 
ing for  England.  An  expert  criminal  does  not 
whitewash  a  comrade  who  has  made  a  mess  of  his 
job ;  he  kicks  him  out.  He  realizes  that  a  muddler 
is  a  danger  to  the  profession.  But  a  statesman 
who  blundered  was  sent  to  the  House  of  Lords, 


266  THREADS 

which  was  the  finest  reformatory  in  the  world  for 
living  down  an  asinine  past. 

John  was  neither  a  criminal  nor  a  Cabinet  Min- 
ister, and  he  had  no  desire  for  popularity.  He 
merely  wished  to  be  let  alone  to  enjoy  himself  in 
the  bosom  of  his  exceptionally  charming  family. 
But  Arthur,  his  son — 

"I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty  to  our  children," 
Amelia  had  said.  "Arthur  is  not  a  coward,  but 
jlhis  prospects — " 

"Would  any  man  in  England  have  any  pros- 
pects— if  every  man  thought  of  his  own?"  John 
had  replied.  He  realized  that  Arthur  must  have 
courage  to  walk  down  Whitehall  in  civilian  clothes 
at  his  age. 

Arthur  had  married,  against  his  father's 
wishes.  John  was  determined  that  no  amount  of 
sentimentality  should  interfere  with  his  firmness 
of  purpose. 

A  little  later  Jimmy  burst  into  the  room. 
"They  are  just  coming  up  the  drive,"  he  informed 
Amelia.  "Jordan  biffed  on  ahead  to  warn  us.  I 
say,  I  sha'n't  have  to  kiss  the  bride,  shall  I?" 

Jordan  followed  him  into  the  room,  his  man- 
ner a  little  apologetic.  The  American  genius  for 
speech-making  came  to  his  assistance.  He  wished 
to  express  his  regret  for  assisting  Arthur  to  set 
their  wishes  at  defiance;  but  as  Arthur  had  done 
him  the  honor  to  ask  his  assistance,  he  could  not 


THREADS  267 

very  well  have  refused.  And,  at  the  same  time, 
he  had  deeply  appreciated  the  privilege  of  being 
associated  so  intimately  with  such  an  auspicious 
event  in  the  history  of  a  family  he  had  learned 
to  love  and  admire. 

"Hear,  hear!  And  so  forth!"  exclaimed 
Jimmy,  considerably  bored. 

Amelia  came  to  the  rescue.  "I  am  glad  you 
were  able  to  help  him,  Mr.  Jordan,"  she  said. 

"It  was  an  honor,"  repeated  Jordan,  after  ex- 
plaining the  details  of  the  ceremony  and  how  it 
had  happened  that  he  had  been  called  in  to  take 
part  in  it  He  had  taken  it  all  very  seriously. 
After  the  wedding  was  an  accomplished  fact, 
Arthur  had  repaid  him  with  a  casual  "Thanks 
awf'ly!"  and  Chloe  had  shaken  his  hand  warmly 
and  shown  her  gratitude.  Jordan,  full  of  "uplift" 
on  account  of  a  very  vital  decision  he  had  made, 
had  thrown  himself  heart  and  soul  into  sympathy 
with  the  young  couple  and  had  omitted  to  talk 
of  his  own  affairs  or  of  the  decision  in  question, 
much  as  he  longed  to  do  so.  But  American  men, 
in  spite  of  being  prolific  conversationists,  are,  as 
a  rule,  far  better  and  far  more  sympathetic  lis- 
teners than  the  average  Englishman  can  even 
pretend  to  be. 

"Sir,"  said  Jordan,  solemnly  turning  to  John, 
"I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  as  the  head  of  your 
family!" 


268  THREADS 

John  looked  at  Amelia  quaintly.  "Am  I  the 
head  of  my  family?"  he  asked. 

"I  hope  so,  John,"  she  replied  quietly. 

"Well,  Mr.  Jordan?"  said  John. 

Jordan  was  a  little  embarrassed;  he  felt  rather 
self-conscious.  He  had  done  a  very  sporting 
thing,  and — he  felt  strangely  like  an  Englishman ; 
that  is  to  say,  rather  ashamed  of  acknowledging 
it. 

"Mr.  Rattigan  has  given  me  permission  to 
apply  for  a  commission  in  the  Flying  Corps,"  he 
announced.  "I  can't  afford  the  time  to  go  home 
to  train  in  the  United  States;  that's  why  I  am 
joining  the  British  army." 

Their  reception  of  the  news  was  all  that  could 
be  desired.  John  congratulated  him  heartily, 
Amelia  looked  at  him  nervously,  Jimmy  whistled 
admiringly,  and  Olive  drew  a  quick  breath.  Jor- 
dan went  on  to  explain  that  Mr.  Rattigan  had 
considerable  influence  with  the  powers  that  be, 
that  the  question  of  nationality  was  to  be  over- 
looked, America  now  being  an  ally,  and  that  he 
had  been  told  that  the  commission  would  be 
granted  almost  immediately,  as  Jordan's  well- 
known  powers  of  organization  and  his  ability  for 
getting  things  done  had  impressed  themselves  on 
the  mandarins  of  Whitehall.  America  was  com- 
ing to  the  assistance  of  the  old  country  in  more 
ways  than  one ;  she  was  sending  men,  money,  and 


THREADS  269 

munitions,  and  she  was  lending  some  of  her  best 
brains.  Perhaps,  after  the  war,  the  obstinate 
stupidity  of  George  III  and  his  followers,  and 
the  unstatesmanlike  folly  and  cupidity  of  British 
rulers  during  the  long  tragedy  of  the  early  sixties, 
would  be  forgotten;  perhaps  the  American  dis- 
like of  British  stupidity  and  conservatism,  and 
the  British  jealousy  of  American  success,  would 
fade  into  obscurity  and  the  two  nations  march 
in  step  toward  the  ultimate  goal  of  democratic 
freedom.  It  was  a  thrilling  thought. 

"I  should  like  your  permission,  sir,  to  pay  my 
addresses  to  your  daughter,"  said  Jordan. 

"To  me?"  gasped  Olive. 

"Surely,"  replied  Jordan,  slightly  bewildered. 

"But  I  thought — that  is,  I  thought  you  were — 
that  you  came  here  on  mother's  account,"  stam- 
mered Olive. 

Jordan  looked  at  her  steadily.  "Why,  no !  It 
was  you  all  the  time,"  he  said.  "It  has  never  been 
anyone  but  you." 

Olive,  perplexed,  turned  to  her  mother.  "But 
I  'm  sure  mother  thought — didn't  you,  mother?" 

"Nonsense!"  said  Amelia  calmly.  "Mr.  Jor- 
dan has  been  charming,  but — I  always  knew 
why" 

This  was  not  strictly  true.  Most  men  of  her 
acquaintance  had  ben  in  love  with  Amelia  at  some 
time  or  another.  She  Had  appreciated  their  de- 


270  THREADS 

votion,  enjoyed  their  companionship,  accepted 
their  attentions ;  but  she  had  taken  it  all  for  what 
it  was  worth.  A  normal  woman  with  a  grown- 
up daughter  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  go  out 
of  her  way  to  avoid  receiving  admiration. 

Olive  had  taken  it  all  with  admirable  philos- 
ophy. If  a  man  preferred  her  mother's  society, 
why  shouldn't  he  indulge  his  preference?  Olive 
had  her  girl  friends  to  fall  back  upon.  That  she 
was  a  little  in  love  with  Jordan  she  did  not  at- 
tempt to  deny;  that  she  was  on  the  verge  of  caring 
very  deeply  for  him  was  a  fact  she  had  been  com- 
pelled to  face;  that  the  odds  against  his  ever 
caring  for  her  in  that  way  had  been  fifty  to  one 
was  a  thought  constantly  in  her  mind.  So,  being 
a  healthy-minded  girl,  she  had  let  things  drift 
and  enjoyed  herself  to  the  best  of  her  ability. 
But  now  that  he  was  going  to  join  up,  to  risk  his 
life  hourly,  daily — the  more  she  felt  a  thing,  the 
less  she  showed  it. 

"It  is  my  intention  to  persuade  Miss  Olive  to 
marry  me  at  once — if  I  am  lucky  enough  to  win 
her  regard,"  said  Jordan. 

"You  are  so  old-fashioned  in  everything  but 
business!"  exclaimed  Olive. 

"I  hope,  sir,  that  you  have  no  objection?" 
asked  Jordan. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  replied  John,  "if  Olive 
thinks  as  you  do — " 


THREADS  271 

"Why,  of  course,  father!"  protested  Olive 
calmly.  "Would  any  girl  refuse  to  marry  a  man 
in  the  Flying  Corps?" 

"I  am  very  sensible  of  the  honor  you  are  doing 
me  in  allowing  me  to  enter  your  family,"  con- 
tinued Jordan  ceremoniously. 

"My  dear  Jordan,"  said  John,  catching  the  spirit 
of  the  occasion,  "we  are  proud  to  welcome  an  ally  I" 

"Sir,"  replied  Jordan,  squaring  his  shoulders, 
"I  am  proud  to  be  an  ally  I" 

Seppy,  with  a  desire  to  be  in  the  picture  and 
an  incurable  longing  to  have  a  finger  in  every  pie, 
stepped  forward  and  held  out  his  hand.  "My 
dear  fellow!"  he  exclaimed,  "we  shall  be  proud 
to  welcome  you  in  the  British  army;  and,  as  an 
old  soldier,  let  me  be  the  first  to  tell  you  so." 

"Thank  you,  Colonel,"  replied  Jordan,  taking 
his  proffered  hand. 

Jimmy  summed  up  the  situation  rather  neatly. 
"This  ought  to  make  Arthur  feel  a  bit  sick,"  he 
remarked. 

Olive  was  not  going  to  be  robbed  of  her  per- 
quisites. "Father,"  she  asked,  "what  was  it  that 
Mr.  Jordan  wanted  permission  to  do?" 

John  chuckled.  "To  pay  his  addresses  to  you," 
he  replied  gravely. 

"Does  that  mean  you  want  to  propose  to  me?" 
inquired  Olive,  looking  at  Jordan  meaningly. 

"Sure,"  said  Jordan. 


272  THREADS 

"Right-ho !"  replied  Olive,  looking  at  her  wrist- 
watch.  "And  after  that  I  must  go  and  fish  out  a 
photograph  of  myself  for  the  war  brides'  page 
in  the  Morning  Megaphone!" 

"But  you  have  n't  accepted  him  yet,"  John  pro- 
tested. 

"I  should  like  to  see  my  pictures  in  all  the 
papers,"  said  Olive.  "It 's  half  the  fun  of  being 
a  war  bride." 

"I  guess  we  'd  better  hurry  along  that  pro- 
posal," suggested  Jordan  impatiently. 

"I  say,"  interpolated  Jimmy,  "I  should  like  to 
hear  old  Jordan  proposing.  May  I  come  too?" 

Jordan  smiled — a  large,  unrationed  smile. 
"Nothing  doing,  Jimmy,"  he  replied. 

"Oh,  come  along!"  cried  Olive,  taking  her 
lover's  arm.  "Your  last  train  goes  at  eleven." 

Why  is  it  that,  when  you  are  supremely  happy, 
there  is  always  a  last  train  to  catch,  or  some  form 
of  the  sword  of  Damocles  hanging  over  your 
head?  If  you  are  engaged,  one  or  the  other  has 
to  go,  and  the  hours  fly  so  quickly,  while  to- 
morrow seems  an  eternity  away.  If  you  are 
married,  there  are  relations  to  placate,  old  family 
friends  to  pacify,  callers  to  entertain,  work  to 
be  done;  and  the  world  always  on  the  threshold. 
There  are  times  when  one  prays  for  the  world 
to  pause,  other  times  when  one  longs  for  it  to 
hasten.  Is  heaven  just  the  state  of  being  happy 


THREADS  273 

with  those  one  loves,  with  no  yesterday  to  deplore, 
no  to-morrow  to  dread?  Or  is  it  a  state  in  which 
one  has  no  regrets  and  no  fears? 

To  Olive  and  Jordan  the  evening  passed  much 
too  quickly,  but  they  made  the  most  of  it;  yet 
Olive  could  not  get  a  picture  out  of  her  head — 
Victoria  Station,  and  the  leave-train  waiting  to 
carry  her  lover  to  Folkestone ;  and,  after  that,  the 
dread  of  the  sight  of  a  telegraph  messenger;  long, 
lonely  days,  and  still  more  lonely  nights,  when 
fear  sat  by  the  window;  and  passionate  rebellion 
against  the  political  ambitions  of  kings  and  min- 
isters that  brought  suffering  and  sorrow  to  wives 
and  mothers. 

That  night  there  was  "nothing  to  report"  on 
the  western  front;  but  men  died  suddenly,  and 
others  were  carried  back  to  the  casualty  clearing 
stations,  shattered,  crippled,  and  the  wires  flashed 
the  news  to  those  who  were  waiting,  to  those 
who  had  lived  in  a  kind  of  dream,  dreading  the 
news  that  might  come. 

And  the  royal  megalomaniac  held  conferences 
with  "the  old  German  god"  and  issued  his  instruc- 
tions for  support. 

Olive  and  Jordan  said  good-by  near  the  gates. 
In  a  wood  below  a  nightingale  was  singing.  How 
beautiful  the  world  could  be! 

Jordan  missed  his  train  and  had  to  walk  to 
Rickmansworttu 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Son:  If  yon  would  but  pay  the  cost? 
Reformer:  What  then? 
Son:  I  can  retain  the  post.     It  suits  me. 
Reformer:  It  will  leave  me  bankrupt. 
Son:  Too  badt 

Pro  Patria,  Act  a. 

ARTHUR  and  Chloe  had  enjoyed  rather  an  event- 
ful day.  Arthur  had  spent  the  morning  occupied 
in  the  British  sport  of  wangling,  leaving  Chloe 
to  make  some  necessary  purchases,  having  ar- 
ranged to  meet  her  at  the  Carlton  Grill  Room  at 
half-past  twelve.  He  pulled  wires,  drew  some 
money  from  the  bank,  procured  his  special 
license,  secured  a  couple  of  days'  leave  "on 
urgent  private  affairs,"  and  telephoned  to  Jordan 
to  be  at  the  Carlton  Grill  Room  at  twelve-thirty. 
The  three  had  partaken  of  an  excellent  lunch, 
and  had  then  taken  a  taxicab  to  a  church  where 
the  vicar,  an  old  friend  of  Arthur's,  had  duly 
married  them,  Jordan  acting  as  best  man,  and  a 
friend  of  Chloe's — a  well-known  suffragist  who 
had  suffered  imprisonment  and  forcible  feeding 
in  1913,  who  wept  copiously  all  through  the  ser- 
vice— arriving  in  the  nick  of  time  to  attend  the 
bride.  They  taxied  to  the  Ritz  for  tea,  Chloe 

274 


THREADS  275 

fingering  her  wedding-ring  with  some  awe,  and 
Arthur  had  telephoned  both  to  Chenies  and  to 
Chalfont.  Jordan  excused  himself  and  went 
straight  to  Chalfont;  the  suffragist  friend  of  the 
bride  stayed  on  for  another  half-hour,  longing 
to  find  an  excuse  for  her  departure,  but  much 
too  shy  to  invent  one.  Finally  Arthur  had  given 
her  an  opportunity  to  remember  a  mythical  en- 
gagement, and  she  had  made  a  hurried  exit. 

The  young  couple  spent  a  pleasant  hour  going 
over  some  flats  that  were  to  let,  the  rents  of 
which  averaged  some  four  hundred  pounds  a 
year.  These  flats  were  small  and  not  particu- 
larly convenient,  but  they  were  in  the  right  streets 
and  squares — which  made  up  for  a  good  deal. 
They  finally  secured  the  refusal  of  a  charming 
flat  in  Knightsbridge,  and,  after  an  early  dinner 
at  the  Piccadilly  Grill  Room,  took  a  cab  to  Baker 
Street,  and  reached  Chalfont  about  nine  o'clock. 

Amelia  welcomed  them  warmly,  though  a  trifle 
tearfully.  John  was  very  polite  and  rather 
amused. 

"How  do  you  reconcile  this  haste  with  your 
common-sense  logic?"  he  asked. 

Chloe  explained  that  it  was  the  essence  of 
common  sense  to  do  what  you  wanted  first  and 
to  argue  about  it  afterward.  She  insisted,  much 
to  his  embarrassment,  on  kissing  her  youthful 


276  THREADS 

brother-in-law.  She  had  quite  a  delightful  sense 
of  humor. 

Jimmy  escaped,  and  for  some  weeks  was  a 
confirmed  misogynist. 

"Did  you  expect  me  to  be  overcome  by  the 
sentiment  proper  to  the  occasion  and  to  present 
you  with  a  large  check?"  inquired  John. 

Chloe  smiled.  "Very  few  people  are  senti- 
mental where  money  is  concerned — outside  the 
theater,"  she  replied. 

Seppy  was  full  of  sentiment,  overflowing  with 
little  remarks  proper  to  the  occasion.  "I  hope 
you  will  allow  me  to  wish  you  happiness?"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Thanks,  old  man  I"  said  Arthur,  rather  bored 
by  the  whole  atmosphere. 

"Oh,  Arthur!"  cried  Amelia.  Her  mouth  was 
quivering,  and  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  It  is  rather 
an  event  in  the  life  of  a  mother  when  she  welcomes 
her  son's  wife;  she  has  some  excuse  for  being 
emotional.  But  the  average  son  is  a  little  unre- 
sponsive to  emotion,  and  perhaps  it  is  just  as 
well. 

"That's  all  right,  mother!"  he  protested 
kindly.  "Don't  let 's  have  a  scene !" 

"We  shall  have  to  go  home  and  explain  things 
to  mother,"  said  Chloe;  "if  we  hurry,  we  shall 
get  there  just  after  father  has  had  his  second 
whisky-and-soda.  He  's  always  more  philosophic 


THREADS  277 

on  two  whiskies-and-sodas  than  he  is  on  a  ration 
breakfast." 

"You  might  tell  Collins  to  get  the  car  out," 
suggested  Arthur  to  Jimmy. 

"All  right,"  replied  Jimmy.  "I  say,  father! 
Arc  you  going  to  fork  out  an  allowance  for 
them?"  he  inquired. 

John  explained  that  he  would  have  much  pleas- 
ure in  doing  so  after  Arthur  had  been  gazetted. 

"That's  one  on  him!"  exclaimed  Jimmy, 
chuckling.  "You  won't  catch  old  Arthur  leaving 
the  P.O. ;  he  's  too  jolly  comfortable  I" 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Chloe  had  her  re- 
venge on  the  discomfited  Harrovian,  who  retired 
in  disorder. 

"You  see,"  Arthur  explained,  "it  would  mean 
teaching  another  man  my  job — which  would  up- 
set the  routine." 

"Arthur  has  thought  of  a  much  better  plan 
than  that,"  said  Chloe. 

"You  said,  sir,  that  you  would  n't  mind  if 
only  one  member  of  our  family  had  joined  up,  and 
I  quite  see  your  point."  Arthur  took  out  his 
cigarette-case,  selected  a  cigarette  with  some  care, 
tapped  it  against  the  arm  of  his  chair,  lighted  it, 
and  deposited  the  match  on  an  ash-tray.  "I 
quite  see  your  point,"  he  repeated,  blowing  smoke 
through  his  nose  and  smiling  affably.  "I  saw  my 
chief  and  explained  the  situation,  and  he  explained 


278  THREADS 

it  to  his  chief,  who  explained  it  to  the  Foreign 
Secretary,  who  passed  it  on  to  the  Prime  Minister, 
who  had  a  word  with  the  War  Office;  and  the 
result  is — "  He  flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigarette. 
"The  result  is,  they  have  consented  to  offer  you 
a  commission." 

There  was  complete  silence  for  a  moment, 
broken  by  a  gasp  from  Amelia. 

"Arthur!"  she  protested. 

"So,  you  see,  there  will  be  at  least  one  of  us  in 
the  army,"  concluded  this  master  of  diplomacy 
with  some  satisfaction. 

John  looked  at  his  son.  "My  dear  Arthur!" 
he  exclaimed :  "As  a  diplomat  you  will  go  far.  I 
congratulate  you!" 

"Don't  you  think  it  was  a  brilliant  idea?"  said 
Chloe. 

"It  was  worthy  of  the  source  from  which  it 
came,"  replied  John. 

Amelia  was  shocked.  "Arthur!"  she  cried 
again  reproachfully. 

"My  dear!"  said  John  gently;  "we  shall  only 
embarrass  our  son!" 

But  in  that  he  was  guilty  of  exaggeration. 
Arthur  did  not  appear  in  the  least  embarrassed. 
It  was  a  master  stroke  of  policy;  it  was  worthy 
of  the  future  Under-Secretary  for  Foreign 
Affairs. 


THREADS  279 

"May  I  inquire  to  what  regiment  I  am  to  be 
gazetted?"  inquired  John  politely. 

"You  are  to  be  an  assistant  A.P.M. — an 
Assistant  Provost  Marshal,"  replied  Arthur. 
"It 's  a  very  important  job  I"  he  added,  with  the 
air  of  a  dispenser  of  favors, 

"What  are  the  duties  of  an  A.P.M.  ?"  asked 
John. 

"You  will  have  to  walk  about  the  West  End 
and  see  that  the  old  dug-outs  in  staff  jobs  get 
plenty  of  salutes,  and  that  an  officer  does  n't  walk 
down  Piccadilly  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  or 
wearing  fancy  socks.  Isn't  that  it,  Seppy?"  in- 
quired Arthur. 

"More  or  less,"  agreed  Seppy,  "More  or 
less." 

"But  I  want  to  help  to  win  the  war,"  protested 
John. 

"The  observance  of  strict  military  etiquette  by 
temporary  soldiers  is  bound  to  win  it — in  time," 
replied  Arthur.  "Of  course,  if  you  would  rather 
have  a  political  job,  I  '11  see  what  can  be  done," 
he  added  graciously. 

"No,  thank  you,  Arthur!"  said  his  father;  "I  'd 
rather  win  the  war  by  walking  than  by  talking." 

Though,  candidly,  he  scarcely  relished  the  no- 
tion of  being  compelled  to  teach  men  from  the 
trenches  how  to  become  soldiers,  and  he  disliked 
the  idea  of  being  the  fly  in  the  ointment  as  far 


280  THREADS 

as  the  enjoyment  of  a  man-on-leave  in  London 
was  concerned.  It  was  rather  like  being  an 
assistant  master  at  a  mixed  school.  The  whole 
thing  was  grotesque.  It  was  like  Arthur  to  sug- 
gest it.  But  he  swallowed  his  indignation.  After 
all,  the  notion  was  distinctly  humorous. 

"You  '11  accept  the  commission?"  said  Arthur. 

"Naturally!"  replied  his  father. 

After  all,  it  would  give  him  a  chance  to  serve 
his  country — and  at  the  same  time  to  get  back 
his  perspective  on  things.  His  country  had  robbed 
him  of  a  quarter  of  his  life,  but  somehow  it  would 
be  pleasant  to  repay  that  act  of  robbery  by  ser- 
vice, however  humble. 

"Don't  worry,  my  dear!"  he  said  to  Amelia, 
who  was  feeling  for  her  handkerchief;  "they  are 
not  going  to  put  me  in  the  front  line." 

"I  think  it 's  splendid  of  you  to  want  to  serve 
your  country — after  the  way  you  have  been 
treated,"  said  Chloe,  biting  her  lip  and  looking 
at  Arthur  with  rather  unfriendly  eyes.  She  felt 
curiously  ashamed. 

"I  hope  I  shall  prove  an  efficient  substitute  for 
my  son,"  replied  John,  with  gentle  irony. 

Arthur  coughed,  and  crushed  his  cigarette. 
"With  reference  to  that  allowance  you  were 
speaking  of,"  he  suggested. 

John  chuckled.  "I  shall  look  upon  it  as 
lagniappe  for  getting  me  my  commission." 


THREADS  281 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  said  Arthur  coolly. 
"Glad  to  do  it  for  you!" 

"I  hope  they  will  make  me  a  major,"  mused  his 
father.  "I  somehow  fancy  myself  as  a  major:  he 
is  more  human  than  a  captain  and  less  ratty  than 
a  colonel.  He  is  the  link  between  the  dug-out 
and  the  digger.  You  might  remember  that, 
Arthur,  when  you  are  wangling  my  promotion." 

"I  '11  mention  it  to  my  chief,"  replied  Arthur. 

"Do  you  think  there  's  any  chance  of  our  being 
happy?"  said  Chloe  to  Amelia,  as  Arthur  was 
cranking  up  the  car  that  was  to  bear  them  to 
Chenies.  Amelia  squeezed  her  hand.  It  was  the 
only  reply  she  could  make.  Could  any  woman 
be  happy  with  such  an  egotist  as  Arthur  had 
proved  himself  to  be?  "I  suggested  Arthur's 
getting  Mr.  Wynn  that  commission  as  a  joke, 
thinking  he  would  feel  a  little  ashamed,"  con- 
tinued Chloe;  "and  he  took  it  seriously." 

"My  dear  Chloe !"  said  John,  overhearing  her 
remark.  "We  are  ruled  by  men  who  take  jokes 
seriously,  and  serious  things  as  a  joke." 

Chloe  pondered  the  question.  If  they  had  chil- 
dren, how  could  she  ever  explain  to  them  why 
their  father  would  n't  fight? 

She  kissed  Amelia,  and  seated  herself  in  the 
car.  She  was  very  silent  during  the  drive.  "We 
shall  be  able  to  take  that  flat,"  remarked  Arthur, 
skilfully  avoiding  a  belated  pedestrian.  Chloe 


282  THREADS 

sighed.  A  little  of  the  gilt  had  already  been 
rubbed  off  the  frame. 

On  arriving  at  Chenies,  Lady  Gratham  cried 
a  little  and  Lord  Gratham  blustered.  They  were 
easily  pacified. 

The  newly  married  couple  drove  up  to  town  and 
spent  the  night  at  the  Ritz,  where  they  had  taken 
rooms. 

It  is  sometimes  profitable  to  be  an  "indispen- 
sable." 

They  spent  the  next  day  in  buying  furniture — 
for  John  had  sent  them  a  generous  check,  which 
arrived  during  breakfast  by  special  messenger. 

A  couple  of  hundred  miles  away  the  barrage 
had  lifted  and  men  were  going  over  the  top.  The 
casualty  list  was  heavy,  but  some  ground  was 
gained 

Arthur  and  Chloe,  however,  were  endeavoring 
to  resist  the  temptation  to  furnish  the  drawing- 
room  in  satinwood. 

That  night,  as  they  dined  at  the  Ritz,  Arthur 
having  glanced  at  an  evening  paper,  remarked: 
"I  see  we  've  lost  a  trench." 

"Have  we?"  replied  Chloe.  "You  know, 
Arthur,  satinwood  is  expensive,  but  it  does  last!" 

"I  know,"  said  Arthur.  "Let 's  go  and  see 
George  Robey  at  the  Alhambra!" 


CHAPTER  XX 

Lesbia:  I  want  him  to  go. 
Reformer:  Then  I  will  tell  him  to. 

Lesbia:  No;  you  would  be  too  brutal.     I  will  make  him  think  he  has 
offered  to  renounce  me.    He  will  feel  a  hero. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  a. 

"AMELIA!"  said  John,  after  the  bridal  couple  had 
been  whirled  away,  "that  boy  is  a  prig  and  a 
fool!" 

Yes,  he  knew  she  had  tried  to  do  her  duty 
to  their  children ;  but  the  only  way  to  treat  a  boy 
like  that  was  to  apply  physical  force  to  that  part 
of  his  anatomy  so  carefully  provided  by  nature 
for  the  purpose. 

Seppy  agreed  with  him.  Seppy's  code  was  old- 
fashioned  in  some  things.  He  was  an  egotist, 
too;  but  there  were  limits  beyond  which  egotism 
should  not  go.  At  any  rate,  there  were  occasions 
on  which  egotism  should  be  camouflaged. 

"May  I  ask  whether  I  shall  have  to  salute  you 
when  I  am  an  A.P.M.?"  inquired  John  genially. 
"Because,  if  so,  it  would  perhaps  be  wiser  to 
have  a  little  chat  before  I  render  myself  liable  to 
be  shot  at  dawn  for  undisciplinary  conduct  toward 
my  superior  officer." 

283 


284  THREADS 

Seppy  looked  at  him  anxiously.  He  hoped  the 
fellow  was  not  going  to  make  a  scene.  A  scene 
would  be  so  out  of  place  in  this  charming  atmos- 
phere. He  fidgeted  uncomfortably.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  understand  whether  John  was  in  earnest. 

"You  and  I  are  both  in  love  with  my  wife,"  said 
John. 

Amelia  was  startled;  she  looked  up  from  her 
place  by  the  tea-tray.  She  always  had  a  pot  of 
China  tea  brought  in  at  ten  o'clock.  The  men 
could  indulge  in  whiskies-and-sodas  if  they  wished 
to,  and  they  usually  did;  but  for  Amelia  tea  was 
the  only  night-cap.  It  was  a  gentle  stimulant,  but 
a  soothing  one.  The  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer, who  when  in  doubt  taxed  tea,  was 
cordially  disliked  by  the  women  of  England. 

"John,"  she  cried,  "you  never  said  you  were  in 
love  with  me  I" 

"My  dear!  I  thought  it  was  obvious,"  he 
protested. 

Amelia  bit  her  lip.  "You  mean  you  took  it  for 
granted  that  I  should  still — care  for  you?" 

"No,"  replied  John;  "I  take  nothing  for 
granted." 

The  man  who  takes  nothing  for  granted  is  fre- 
quently called  a  cynic;  but  some  men  are  born 
with  the  craze  for  analysis  and  the  desire  to  rea- 
son things  out  for  themselves.  Through  them 
and  their  kind  the  world  progresses.  Some  men 


THREADS  285 

fly  to  a  dictionary  for  explanations,  while  others 
prove  them  by  experience. 

"As  I  am  the  host,"  added  John,  a  little  grimly, 
"I  should  like  our  friend  to  have  the  first  innings." 

"You  're  only  half  serious,"  protested  Amelia 
indignantly. 

"I  am  in  deadly  earnest,"  said  John.  "But  I 
understand  that  he  has  been  such  a  good  friend 
to  you." 

"I  have  been  her  devoted  friend  for  twelve 
years,"  cried  Seppy.  "I  have  no  wish  to  give  up 
the  privilege." 

Amelia  sighed.  "I  am  very  grateful  for  all  you 
have  done  for  us,  Seppy,"  she  murmured. 

John  chuckled.  "That  sounds  uncommonly 
like  'Cease  fire !'  When  a  woman  expresses  her 
gratitude  for  all  your  attention  and  sympathy,  it 
usually  means  that  she  has  had  enough  of  it." 

"Does  it  mean  that,  Amelia?"  inquired  Seppy 
reproachfully. 

Amelia  wanted  to  be  kind,  but  she  wanted  still 
more  to  be  definite.  The  time  for  letting  things 
slide  was  over.  "Much  as  I  appreciate  your  com- 
pany, Seppy,  you  never  made  me  forget  my  hus- 
band," she  said 

"Amelia  1"  protested  Seppy,  with  a  catch  in 
his  voice.  "I  loved  you  1" 

If  a  woman  cannot  have  the  man  she  wants, 
she  frequently  drugs  herself  by  accepting  the  devo- 


286  THREADS 

tion  of  the  man  who  wants  her.  It  may  be  selfish 
and  a  little  inconsiderate  to  the  man  concerned; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  in  this  particular  in- 
stance, if  Seppy  had  not  devoted  himself  to 
Amelia,  he  might  have  become  entangled  with 
some  woman  who  was  not  at  all  desirable. 

"At  least,  I  have  done  you  no  harm,"  she  pro- 
tested. 

"I  refuse  to  be  cast  off  like  a  last  year's  gown," 
asserted  Seppy,  with  some  emphasis. 

"Last  year's  gowns  are  not  cast  off,"  said  John; 
"they  are  made  over." 

"To  think  I  have  known  you  all  these  years 
without  knowing  you  at  all  I"  groaned  Seppy.  He 
fidgeted  nervously  with  the  ash-tray  and  spilt  its 
contents  on  the  floor,  then  absent-mindedly 
stamped  the  ash  into  the  rug.  His  self-respect, 
his  pride,  his  vanity — all  the  little  aids  that  gave 
him  his  poise — were  protesting  against  the  blow 
•he  had  received.  "Does  a  man  ever  really  know 
what  a  woman  is  thinking?"  he  cried. 

"Does  she  fool  him,  or  does  he  fool  himself? 
That  is  the  point,"  said  John, 

Seppy  sighed.  Women  were  so  rarely  direct. 
They  corkscrewed,  like  a  winding  staircase,  where 
a  man  would  go  up  in  the  lift.  Women  were 
not  subtle;  they  were  merely  secretive.  Even  as 
a  boy,  Seppy  had  discovered  that  women  were 
difficult  to  understand;  that  was  why  he  found 


THREADS  287 

them  so  attractive.  A  man  never  knew  where  he 
was  with  them.  They  pretended  to  be  enjoying 
themselves,  when  in  reality  they  were  bored  stiff ! 
They  said  they  didn't  want  a  thing,  when  they 
were  actually  pining  for  it.  They  admired  glori- 
ous scenery,  and  assumed  enthusiasm  over  a  Bach 
string  quartette,  for  instance;  and  all  the  time 
they  were  wondering  whether  their  hats  were  at 
the  right  angle,  and  why  some  other  woman  wore 
pink  when  blue  was  her  color.  Their  minds  rioted 
through  a  thousand  subjects  before  a  man  had 
had  time  to  digest  one.  They  drank  coffee  after 
port,  and  ate  ices  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and 
night.  They  admired  some  beastly  romantic 
actor,  or  a  fat  tenor,  neither  of  whom  had  ever 
been  drilled  or  had  any  pretensions  to  smart- 
ness. They  had  moods  of  depression,  of  contra- 
diction, of  penitence — the  penitent  mood  was  very 
attractive — or  high  spirits  when  conscious  of 
looking  their  best;  but  when  once  you  had  suc- 
cumbed to  the  attraction,  you  found  the  society 
of  men  very  tame  and  ordinary. 

Seppy  sighed  again.  He  remembered  his 
school-days,  the  subtle  stuffy  aroma  of  class- 
rooms, the  academic  pedantry  of  the  classical  mas- 
ters, the  fevered  craze  for  athletic  supremacy; 
the  quaint  mixture  of  the  prig,  the  glutton,  and 
the  explorer  that  was  in  every  boy;  the  confi- 
dential talks  that  usually  concluded  in  horse-play; 


288  THREADS 

the  refined  cruelty  of  the  school-boy  in  his  dealings 
with  a  nervous  master;  all  the  dull,  dreary 
monotony  of  public-school  life.  Sandhurst  had 
been  little  more  than  a  glorified  public  school, 
and  the  army  itself  was  scarcely  any  different. 
Either  you  possessed  the  school-boy  mind  and 
spirit,  and  gave  all  your  spare  time  to  hunting, 
shooting,  or  polo,  or  you  found  yourself  un- 
utterably bored  both  in  mess  and  out  of  it.  Brains 
were  tabu,  cleverness  was  distrusted.  Seppy 
looked  back  upon  a  somewhat  empty  record,  the 
brightest  spots  in  wEich  had  been  filled  by  women, 
He  had  always  been  decent  to  women,  and 
women  had  usually  been  decent  to  him.  He  had 
never  had  a  great  passion;  he  had  never  let  him- 
self go;  he  had  attached  himself  to  a  few  women 
at  various  stages  of  his  career — one  at  a  time- 
He  had  given  all  his  devotion,  and  had  asked  for 
nothing  in  return.  Men  called  him  "Poor  old 
Seppy!"  as  though  they  were  saying  "Good  dog!" 
And  now  Amelia  was  thanking  him  for  past 
favors  while  her  husband  gently  and  ironically 
chaffed  him. 

Seppy  looked  very  sad  and  forlorn  as  he  sat 
reflecting  on  these  things;  he  looked  so  like  a  toy 
balloon  that  had  been  pricked  that  Amelia  felt 
rather  guilty. 

"I  *m  sorry  if  you  feel  that  I  have  n't  treated 
you  properly,"  she  murmured. 


THREADS  289 

"Oh,  please!"  protested  Seppy.  But,  in  spite 
of  his  protest,  he  was  beginning  to  feel  that  he 
had  been  made  a  convenience  of.  One  could  not 
deny  it.  He  had  placed  his  heart  in  Amelia's 
keeping,  and  she  had  used  it  as  a  paper-weight — 
to  keep  her  receipts  in  order,  as  a  taxicab  whistle, 
as  an  army  and  navy  stores  catalogue. 

Some  men  are  rather  like  an  army  and  navy 
stores  catalogue;  they  possess  a  little  of  every- 
thing, and  everything  is  labeled.  Seppy  was  one 
of  them. 

"My  dear  Colonel,"  said  John,  a  little  cruelly, 
"some  men  would  never  be  loved  at  all  if  it  was  n't 
for  their  usefulness.  A  knowledge  of  Bradshaw 
and  the  best  restaurants  is  of  far  more  value 
in  a  husband  than  a  Grecian  profile.  Is  n't  it, 
Amelia?"  he  added,  turning  to  his  wife. 

"A  woman  admires  a  man  for  his  looks;  she 
adores  him  for  his  brains,"  said  Amelia. 

"Women  are  materialists;  didn't  you  know 
that?"  inquired  John. 

Seppy  had  placed  women  on  a  pedestal — 
Amelia  in  particular.  He  hated  being  compelled 
to  listen  to  remarks  derogatory  to  women.  He 
remembered  moments  when  he  had  seen  a  won- 
derful far-away  look  in  Amelia's  eyes,  as  though 
all  the  secrets  and  mysteries  of  the  world  had 
been  unfolding  themselves  to  her.  He  would 


290  THREADS 

swear  that  she  had  not  been  thinking  of  brains 
then. 

John  would  have  said  she  was  probably  work- 
ing out  the  details  of  a  new  frock.  Men  can  be 
very  irritating  at  times;  their  humor  does  not 
always  strike  the  psychological  moment. 

"When  you  tell  me  that  women  are  materialists, 
I  can't  help  feeling  very  disappointed,  for  men, 
too,  are  materialists,"  protested  Seppy.. 

"Nonsense,"  replied  John.  "Men  are  idealists, 
dreamers,  unpractical,  creatures  of  impulse, 
changeable,  easily  petted,  easily  soothed,  easily 
roused,  swift  to  anger,  slow  to  forgive,  full  of 
contradictions,  full  of  little  vices  and  of  big 
virtues." 

"John  is  quite  right,"  interrupted  Amelia. 
"The  more  I  study  boys,  the  more  I  understand 
men." 

"Your  children  think  you  understand  very 
littk,"  cried  Seppy. 

"Children  always  think  their  parents  a  little 
slow  in  the  uptake,"  replied  John.  "Some  par- 
ents encourage  the  notion.  The  fact  is  that  no 
one  is  as  wise  as  he  thinks  he  is,  nor  as  foolish 
as  he  appears." 

"Do  I  appear  foolish  to  you,  Amelia?"  in- 
quired Seppy,  a  trifle  overcome  at  the  idea* 

"Not  more  than  most  men  do  at  times,"  re- 
plied Amelia. 


THREADS  291 

John  chuckled.  The  thrust  had  pierced  Seppy's 
guard,  and  his  own  as  well.  Women  were  ex- 
pert fencers,  and  rarely  used  buttoned  foils. 

"You  mustn't  give  up  dropping  into  dinner," 
said  Amelia.  "I  'm  sure  John  won't  mind." 

The  scene  was  not  panning  out  as  Seppy  had 
planned  it.  He  was  beginning  to  realize  how  a 
leading  actor  must  feel  when  he  has  to  renounce 
leading  roles  and  assume  those  of  secondary  im- 
portance, when  there  would  no  longer  be  an 
"and"  before  his  name,  when  he  would  no  longer 
be  greeted  with  a  round  of  applause,  when  his 
opinions  on  questions  of  the  day  would  no  longer 
be  sought  by  journalists  anxious  to  fill  a  column. 
He  began  to  visualize  himself  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  club  fireplace  and  beginning  anecdotes 
with  the  words  "I  remember."  Such  an  attitude 
is  a  milestone  in  the  life  of  a  man :  it  means  that 
he  can  no  longer  look  forward,  but  must  from 
that  time  on  exist  in  the  past.  It  would  be  worse 
than  having  a  seat  offered  to  him  by  a  young 
man  in  a  crowded  train — if  a  young  man  of  such 
amazing  courtesy  had  by  some  error  strayed  into 
.  London. 

He  would  not  submit — not  without  a  struggle. 
He  would  apply  for  a  job  on  active  service;  not 
that  there  was  very  much  chance  of  his  getting 
one,  but  it  would  soothe  his  self-respect  to  apply 
for  it.  Besides,  he  would  mention  the  fact  that 


292  THREADS 

he  had  applied  for  it  to  sundry  acquaintances  at 
his  various  clubs.  His  friends  would  call  him  a 
sport,  and  some  of  the  members  of  the  softer  sex 
might  label  him  a  hero.  He  was  saluted  by  all 
and  sundry  in  Pall  Mall  and  Whitehall;  but  in 
his  heart  he  realized  that  he  was  nothing  but  a 
dug-out.  He  was  drawing  consolidated  pay,  and 
he  wore  red  tabs;  but  he  had  only  been  brought 
back  to  take  the  place  of  a  younger  man  who 
was  wanted  for  service  overseas.  His  step  would 
never  be  quite  so  jaunty  again;  he  had  outlived 
his  usefulness.  Amelia  was  asking  him  to  dinner 
because  she  was  sorry  for  him,  not  because  she 
desired  his  company.  John  did  not  even  fear 
him  as  a  rival.  He  had  been  too  modest,  too 
easily  satisfied.  And  now  he  was  getting  old;  he 
felt  he  was  getting  old.  He  helped  himself  to  a 
second  whisky-and-soda.  He  needed  bucking  up. 

John  was  beginning  to  realize  that  he  would 
grow  quite  fond  of  Seppy  in  time-  But  he  was 
a  man,  and  consequently  an  individualist,  and 
therefore  distinctly  averse  to  sharing  with  Seppy 
either  his  house  or  his  wife's  affection.  He 
handed  a  box  of  cigarettes  to  his  visitor  with  the 
remark:  "These  are  yours,  I  believe  1" 

Seppy  took  the  box.  "I  am  not  going  to  give 
in  without  a  struggle,"  he  protested,  his  second 
whisky-and-soda  having  started  on  the  process  of 
bucking  him  up. 


THREADS  293 

"Quite  right!"  replied  John  approvingly.  He 
was  anxious  that  Seppy  should  go  and  do  his 
struggling  somewhere  else.  He  realized  that 
when  a  woman  is  taking  a  tender  farewell  she 
liked  to  prolong  the  agony  and  to  talk  over  every 
phase  of  it.  John,  being  a  man,  preferred  to  get 
it  over  without  any  unnecessary  delay.  "I  want 
the  position  thoroughly  understood  before  you 
become  my  superior  officer." 

"I  think  you  are  a  little  inconsiderate,"  said 
Amelia. 

John  realized  the  truth  of  her  remark,  but, 
having  decided  on  his  policy,  he  was  determined 
to  see  it  through.  Seppy  had  to  be  sacrificed,  so 
it  would  be  wiser  to  get  it  over.  Amelia  must 
forget  Seppy's  little  ways  of  doing  things  that 
were  an  improvement  on  John's;  and  the  sooner 
she  forgot  them,  the  happier  they  would  both  be. 
If  Seppy  felt  aggrieved,  he  could  take  it  out  on 
his  subalterns. 

"I  am  the  last  person  to  insist  on  my  rights  at 
another  man's  expense,"  asserted  Seppy. 

"No  man  of  any  decent  feeling  considers 
another  man's  rights  where  his  own  prejudices 
are  concerned,"  replied  John  with  mock-gravity. 

Amelia  tried  to  pour  oil  on  the  troubled  waters. 
"There  will  be  a  place  laid  for.  you  at  lunch  every 
Sunday,"  she  announced. 

Seppy  hesitated.     After  all,  it  would  be  very 


294  THREADS 

pleasant  to  have  a  haven  of  rest  to  come  down 
to  after  the  worries  of  Whitehall;  and  if  he  could 
not  make  love  to  Amelia,  he  could  remember  past 
privileges.  He  still  possessed  some  of  the  senti- 
mentality of  the  nineteenth  century,  but  at  the 
same  time  he  had  acquired  a  reasonable  percentage 
of  the  hedonistic  tendencies  of  the  twentieth. 
Personal  comforts  were  not  to  be  despised.  There 
were  even  compensations  in  being  a  bachelor. 

The  second  whisky-and-soda  was  doing  its 
work  well.  John's  subsequent  remark  "There  's 
life  in  the  old  dog  yet"  was  distinctly  brutal,  but 
perfectly  true.  Seppy  was  a  soldier;  he  admitted 
a  reverse,  but  never  a  defeat. 

"He  will  visualize  his  blighted  hopes  in  every 
glass  of  port  he  drinks,"  murmured  John,  after 
Seppy  had  hurried  off  to  catch  the  last  train  back 
to  town,  "He  will  see  himself  as  the  elderly 
bachelor  of  Victorian  fiction,  nursing  a  broken 
heart,  and  it  will  buck  him  up  like  anything." 

It  did. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Credit  a  woman's  deeds  but  not  her  words. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  4. 

JOHN  reflected  on  what  he  had  accomplished  in 
the  comparatively  few  hours  that  had  elapsed 
since  he  had  been  released  from  prison.  He  had 
encouraged  his  daughter  to  follow  the  instincts  of 
her  own  heart,  and  she  was  now  engaged  in  say- 
ing a  protracted  farewell  to  her  acknowledged 
lover.  He  had  protested  against  his  elder  son's 
refusal  to  join  the  army,  and  he  had  been  tricked 
into  granting  that  diplomatic  young  schemer  an 
allowance.  He  would  have  to  send  Arthur  a  check 
in  the  morning  as  a  proof  of  his  defeat.  Politi'cal 
methods  always  scored.  Jimmy  appeared  to  have 
accepted  him  as  a  decent  sort  of  parent.  He  was 
gradually  assuming  the  position  of  master  in  his 
own  house.  Amelia,  his  wife,  was  not  to  be  won 
so  easily.  She  had  taken  up  a  book,  and  was 
turning  over  the  pages  without  realizing  their 
meaning.  Of  what  was  she  thinking?  Was  she 
angry  with  him  for  his  attitude  toward  Seppy, 
for  his  attitude  toward  her  generally?  Had  he 
taken  too  much  for  granted?  Was  she  resentful 

295 


296  THREADS 

of  his  interference?  His  thoughts  went  back  to 
those  early  days  of  married  life  they  had  spent 
together,  to  the  terrible  wrench  of  their  parting, 
to  the  black  curtain  that  had  been  drawn  across 
their  horizon,  to  the  long,  dreary,  hopeless  years 
when  both  his  soul  and  body  had  been  in  prison. 
For  a  moment  the  old  numbed,  dazed  feeling 
came  back;  but  he  pulled  himself  together  with  an 
effort  He  would  look  forward;  they  were  both 
still  young  enough  for  the  future  to  have  some 
meaning  for  them.  He  would  win  her  again. 

His  sense  of  humor  had  helped  him  through 
the  hell  he  had  suffered,  but  it  was  only  a  cloak 
to  the  raw  wound  in  his  soul.  His  children  were 
splendid;  he  adored  them.  Even  Arthur  had 
qualities  that  appealed,  though  difficult  to  fathom. 
But  Amelia  was  the  whole  world  to  him,  and 
without  her  love  life  would  be  a  very  drab  and 
profitless  affair.  He  needed  great  tact;  and  tact 
was  scarcely  his  long  suit.  He  was  too  direct, 
too  analytical ;  he  probed  too  much,  took  too  little 
for  granted — and  too  much.  He  had  too  many 
theories;  he  looked  too  much  for  motives.  He 
must  be  a  very  difficult  person  to  live  with.  This 
habit  of  his  of  looking  at  things  from  every  point 
of  view — a  habit  that  eventually  only  confirmed 
his  own — must  irritate  and  at  times  exasperate  a 
woman  accustomed  to  accepting  things  at  their 
face  value.  He  had  so  dreaded  appearing  a 


THREADS  297 

martyr  that  he  had  perhaps  overdone  the  attitude 
he  had  chosen.  Could  Amelia  think  he  was  with- 
out feeling,  that  he  was  actually  making  fun  of 
tragedy?  His  sense  or  irony  might  be  misunder- 
stood and  labeled  facetiousness.  He  hated  face- 
tiousness.  Life  was  ironical,  and  one  must  accept 
the  fact.  His  imagination  made  him  see  Amelia's 
point  of  view.  She  had  courageously  faced  the 
tragedy  and  had  brought  up  her  children  with 
care  and  tenderness.  That  was  a  wonderful  feat. 
She  had  hidden  her  grief  so  that  they  should  be 
happy;  she  had  tried  to  live  a  natural  and  or- 
dinary life  so  that  they  should  remain  in  ignorance 
of  the  tragedy  that  had  darkened  hers.  She  had 
the  woman's  genius  for  giving,  the  selflessness  that 
can  be  found  even  in  selfish  women.  He  had  been 
in  prison  for  fifteen  years — for  another  man's 
crime.  Had  she,  too,  not  been  in  prison  at  his 
bidding?  There  had  always  been  a  warder  out- 
side in  the  corridor  to  warn  her  of  the  rules  and 
regulations  that  hampered  her,  that  a  break  in 
the  rules  would  lead  to  publicity — and  shame  for 
her  children.  She  had  kept  her  youth  in  spite 
of  everything.  Was  she  to  be  denied  all  admira- 
tion and  the  comradeship  of  men?  There  must 
have  been  times  when  she  had  longed  to  rid  her- 
self of  all  responsibility,  to  forget,  and  to  snatch 
a  counterfeit  happiness.  She  was  responsive ;  she 
had  always  been  amazingly  responsive.  She  must 


298  THREADS 

have  suffered — terribly.  The  loneliness,  the 
isolation,  the  knowledge  that  any  any  moment  her 
children  might  stumble  on  the  truth !  Looked  at 
from  an  unesthetic  point  of  view,  had  his  suffer- 
ings been  any  more  dreadful  than  hers?  He  had 
had  to  live  a  life  of  routine,  of  soul-deadening 
monotony;  he  had  writhed  at  the  realization  of 
wasted  life  entailed  by  the  prison  system.  Crim- 
inals should  be  treated  as  sick  men — mentally 
and  morally  unfit;  they  should  be  treated  psycho- 
logically. Atmosphere  would  have  helped  them. 
But  the  atmosphere  of  a  prison  was  death  to  any 
latent  germ  of  hope  or  of  determination  to  seek 
higher  ideals.  Instead  of  treating  that  part  of 
the  brain  that  was  diseased,  the  criminal  was 
treated  as  an  automaton.  He  was  no  longer  a 
man ;  he  was  a  number.  The  prison  uniform  alone 
destroyed  what  remained  of  a  man's  self-respect 

To  imagine  suffering — especially  another's 
suffering — was  almost  worse  than  actual  suffering 
itself.  What  must  Amelia's  thoughts  have  been? 
How  she  must  have  dreaded  the  long,  nerve- 
shattering  nights  when  her  imagination  had  had 
full  play?  She  must  have  seen  him  in  her  mind's 
eye — chained,  sullen,  losing  touch  with  humanity. 
The  bravery  of  men  was  spasmodic,  the  result  of 
training,  of  impulse,  of  fear  of  being  thought  a 
coward,  elemental,  chivalrous,  philosophical;  but 
the  bravery  of  women  was  fundamental — a  thing 


THREADS  299 

to  wonder  at,  to  make  a  man  feel  very  humble. 
A  woman  would  scream  at  a  mouse,  or  run  miles 
to  avoid  a  cow;  but  she  would  face  the  pangs  of 
childbirth  without  exposing  her  fears  to  her  hus- 
band, and  a  life  that  at  any  moment  might 
crumble,  as  Amelia  had  done,  with  a  smile  on  her 
face,  and  an  acceptance  of  the  small  social  duties 
— for  the  sake  of  her  children.  Yes ;  women  were 
braver  than  men.  No  doubt  there  were  women 
who  shirked  responsibilities,  women  who  pur- 
posely went  childless,  but  they  were  on  a  par 
with  conscientious  objectors  and  other  imitation 
men;  women  who  denied  their  sex,  its  privileges 
and  punishment,  and  thought  only  of  their  own 
comforts.  They  were  worse  than  the  women  of 
the  streets;  they  were  welshers.  They  refused  to 
pay  for  what  they  had  taken;  they  were  default- 
ers, and  should  be  treated  as  such.  And  there 
were  men  of  the  same  breed. 

Yes,  life  was  very  puzzling — and  very  interest- 
ing. Problems  were  set  to  be  solved*  and  he  was 
face  to  face  with  an  extremely  perplexing  one. 
So  much  depended  upon  his  present  attitude.  He 
could  win— or  lose— everything  by  what  he  did; 
not  so  much  by  what  he  decided  to  do,  but  by 
what  he  actually  did — from  instinct,  on  impulse, 
naturally. 

He  went  over  to  Amelia  and  sat  beside  her  on 


300  THREADS 

the  couch.  "Amelia,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand, 
"is  n't  it  time  we  spoke  of  ourselves?" 

She  avoided  him  imperceptibly,  and  shrank  a 
little  more  into  herself.  "We  have  been  speaking 
of  ourselves,  more  or  less,  all  the  evening,"  she 
protested. 

"Are  you  angry  with  me  for  sending  your  friend 
away?"  inquired  John  gently. 

"No;  not  for  that,"  she  replied,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  rug,  her  voice  low  but  distinct. 

"For  what,  then?"  asked  John,  somewhat 
puzzled. 

Amelia  turned  to  him  and  withdrew  her  hand. 
"I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell  you,"  she  answered. 

"Then  how  am  I  to  understand?"  he  inquired  in 
some  perplexity. 

"You  should  understand;  it 's  your  inability  to 
understand  that — that  hurts  me,"  she  said, 

"My  dear,"  he  protested,  "don't  let's 
quarrel !" 

He  took  her  hand  and  squeezed  it. 

"That  isn't  understanding  me,  John;  it's 
merely — petting  me." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  pet  you?"  he  asked,  letting 
go  her  hand  and  facing  her. 

"Why  should  you  ?"  She  spoke  a  little  bitterly. 
"Since  you  came  back  have  you  shown  any  desire 
to — to  pet  me?  Have  you  shown  any  feeling 


THREADS  301 

o'tE'er  than  a  wish  to  score  off  poor  Seppy  and  to 
assert  yourself  as  my  husband?" 

John  sighed — a  perplexed,  humorous,  protest- 
ing sigh.  "My  dear!  Aren't  you  deliberately 
trying  to  make  trouble  between  us?" 

Amelia  echoed  his  sigh.  Of  course,  he  could  n't 
understand;  she  had  realized  that  he  couldn't. 
But — oh,  if  he  only  could ! 

"I  suppose  a  man's  hatred  of  unessentials  keeps 
him  from  saying  more  than  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary," he  said. 

"To  a  woman  nothing  is  unessential,"  replied 
Amelia  quietly,  "The  more  details  she  has  to 
play  with  in  her  mind,  the  nearer  she  can  get  to 
the  truth." 

"While  a  man  fishes  out  the  truth  from  a 
mass  of  details  and  freezes  on  to  it,"  said  John. 

"Oh,  John!"  she  cried.  "Philosophy  comes 
more  easily  to  a  man  than  it  does  to  a  woman,  but 
women  have  to  learn  it  in  a  harder  school." 

He  kissed  her  hand  chivalrously.  He  knew  she 
had  spoken  the  truth.  "My  dear !  We  have  both 
had  to  learn  philosophy,"  he  said. 

Amelia  rose  and  walked  toward  the  window. 
"I  am  too  much  of  a  rebel  to  be  a  real  philoso- 
pher," she  protested. 

A  woman  frequently  seeks  her  ideals  in  artificial 
fiction  as  a  protest  against  the  dryness  of  reality. 
She  wanted  to  be  understood;  she  wanted  still 


302  THREADS 

more  to  be  carried  off  her  feet;  she  most  decidedly 
did  not  want  to  sit  on  a  couch  with  her  husband, 
exchanging  platitudes.  She  wished  he  were  not 
so  chivalrous.  Too  much  chivalry  was  as  nauseat- 
ing as  too  much  artificial  fiction:  it  chained  the 
natural  man  and  kept  him  silent. 

John  puzzled  over  the  situation.  Was  he  still 
to  remain  merely  a  privileged  visitor?  Could 
nothing  break  down  the  barrier  that  divided 
them?  He  spoke  of  Arthur  and  Chloe,  and  a 
check  was  written,  to  be  sent  in  the  morning. 
Amelia  agreed  to  everything  he  suggested. 

Olive  came  in  from  saying  good-by  to  Jordan, 
a  little  flushed,  but  very  thrilled.  Jordan  had 
been  obliged  to  run  to  catch  his  train,  she  ex- 
plained; he  had  said  good-by  so  many  times  that 
she  feared  he  would  miss  it.  It  was  great  fun 
being  engaged.  She  drank  some  cold  tea  and 
looked  at  her  father  and  mother  sympathetically. 
It  was  strange  to  see  them  together,  but  rather 
comforting.  Arthur  was  married,  she  herself  was 
engaged,  Jimmy  was  at  school;  it  would  be  nice 
for  them  to  have  each  other  to  talk  to  and  to 
exchange  ideas  with.  Being  engaged  made  one 
sympathetic  toward  everyone. 

"I'm  rather  tired;  I  shall  go  to  bed,"  said 
Amelia.  She  went  over  to  John  and  offered  her 
forehead.  He  kissed  her.  She  shivered  a  little 
and  went  up  to  her  room. 


THREADS  303 

It  was  a  comfortable  room,  spacious,  luxuri- 
ously furnished,  with  plenty  of  light.  She  un- 
dressed slowly,  and  spent  some  time  in  brushing 
her  hair.  She  looked  at  herself  in  the  mirror. 

She  looked  very  young  in  her  kimono,  with  her 
hair  down;  it  was  beautiful  hair,  and  she  was 
justly  proud  of  it.  She  was  tall,  slim,  and  ex- 
tremely pretty.  No  one  would  guess  her  age, 
seeing  her  thus.  Age  was  purely  a  matter  of 
thought.  She  sat  for  a  long  while,  her  chin  rest- 
ing on  her  hands,  her  elbows  on  the  dressing-table, 
gazing  at  her  reflection  critically. 

Presently — quite  half  an  hour  later — she  went 
to  the  door  and  opened  it.  How  still  everything 
was!  Olive  must  have  gone  to  bed.  The  lights 
were  out  in  the  hall.  John  must  have  retired,  too ; 
or  perhaps  he  was  sitting  in  the  dark — thinking. 

She  drew  her  kimono  about  her  and  softly  de- 
scended the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

The  nightingale's  full-throated  melody 
That  thrills  beneath  the  magic  of  the  moon. 

Pro  Patria,  Act  4. 

"YouR  mother  seems  a  little  upset  about  some- 
thing," said  John,  after  Amelia  had  gone  upstairs. 

"Naturally,"  replied  Olive.  She  looked  at  her 
f  ather*  Were  all  men  so  slow  in  the  uptake  where 
women  were  concerned?  Would  she  herself  find 
it  necessary  .to  be  exasperatingly  direct  in  her  deal- 
ings with  Jefferson?  Perhaps  a  man's  imagina- 
tion found  it  difficult  to  follow  his  wife's  mental 
processes.  Oh,  well !  If  men  could  n't  see  things, 
they  should  have  them  pointed  out. 

"Don't  you  understand  what  it  is,  father?"  she 
inquired. 

John  frowned.  "Do  you  mean  about  Seppy?" 
he  asked. 

"Good  heavens,  no!"  said  Olive,  smiling. 
"Mother  did  n't  really  care  for  Seppy,  though  he 
was  very  useful."  She  sat  on  the  arm  of  the 
Chesterfield.  "I  mean  about  you,  father  I" 

"What  about  me?"  inquired  her  father, 
puzzled,  but  anxious  to  learn. 

304 


THREADS  305 

"Don't  you  realize  what  it  means  to  her  to  have 
you  home?"  she  replied,  answering  his  question 
with  another. 

John  lit  a  cigarette,  "I  wish  I  could  realize 
exactly  what  it  did  mean  to  her,"  he  said. 

The  conversation  had  to  become  intimate,  and 
Olive  had  all  the  younger  generation's  horror  of 
too  much  intimacy;  she  could  stand  hard  facts, 
and  liked  to  call  a  spade  a  spade,  but  only  in  an 
impersonal  fashion.  "Why,  father!  Don't  you 
see  ?"  she  cried.  "Mother  loves  you  so  much  that 
it 's  making  her  rather  jumpy!" 

John  drew  a  quick  breath.  "Do  you  mean 
that?"  he  asked,  a  little  unsteadily. 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Olive.  "I  thought  you 
knew.  But  you  are  so  polite  to  her,  so  gentle,  it 
made  me  wonder  whether  you  really  loved  her,  or 
whether  you  were  only  pretending  to." 

John  looked  at  his  daughter,  amazement  writ- 
ten in  his  face. 

nl  understand  what  you  have  been  through, 
what  you  must  have  suffered,"  said  Olive  quickly. 
"I  've  been  a  little  worried  myself,"  she  added, 
coloring  a  little.  "I  was  very  fond  of  Jeff;  only 
— I  did  n't  know  whether  he  was  fond  of  me. 
And,  because  I  did  n't  know,  I  Ve  been  so  offhand 
with  him  he  did  n't  dare  tell  me.  I  suppose  I  'm 
a  woman — in  spite  of  my  education,"  she  re- 
flected ruefully.  "I  expect  mother  is  a  little  like 


306  THREADS 

me.  She  is  n't  sure ;  and  she  has  been  afraid  to 
take  the  lid  off  the  kettle,  lest  it  should  boil  over, 
or — "  She  hesitated,  and  glanced  at  her  father. 

"Or  what?"  inquired  John  eagerly. 

"Lest  it  should  be— cold,"  replied  Olive  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Cold?"  he  echoed,  almost  in  a  whisper. 
"Cold?"  Good  Lord!" 

"You  see,  father,"  continued  Olive,  determined 
to  see  it  through,  "it  was  n't  as  though  you  had 
been  a  soldier  who  had  been  killed  in  action." 
She  shuddered  unconsciously.  Supposing  Jeffer- 
son— 

She  pulled  herself  together  and  continued 
bravely.  "Then  pride  in  your  sacrifice  would  have 
helped  her  to  bear  the  long,  cruel,  lonely  years. 
But  you  were  alive — though  dead  to  her;  alive — 
and  she  could  n't  see  you,  could  n't  hear  your 
voice,  could  do  nothing  for  you.  But  love  like 
hers  could  n't  be  killed  by  sorrow;  she  must  have 
wanted  you  so.  I  think  she  would  have  died — 
if  it  had  n't  been  for  us.  We  have  been  horrid  to 
her — sometimes.  I  suppose  most  children  are 
rather  heartless.  When  she  was  quivering  with 
rebellion,  and  with  longing  for  you,  we  pretended 
she  was  just  nervous." 

John  suddenly  realized  how  his  attitude  must 
have  hurt  Amelia,  how  he  had  seemed  to  have 
accepted  everything  and  had  made  no  effort  to 


THREADS  307 

pull  down  the  mythical  wall  that  had  divided 
them.  Amelia  must  have  thought  him  heartless, 
coldly  courteous,  almost  a  stranger.  And  it  had 
all  been  a  mask,  deliberately  assume/i>  for  fear 
of  letting  her  learn  the  truth.  How  easily  mis- 
understandings arose !  How  hard  they  were  to 
clear  up !  And  here  was  his  daughter,  a  girl  of 
eighteen,  almost  a  child,  a  baby  when  he  had  last 
seen  her,  pointing  out  to  him  the  mistakes  he  had 
made.  "Good  Lord  I"  he  cried,  almost  in  a 
whisper. 

"When  you  came  home — so  miraculously,  so 
unexpectedly — and  you  treated  her  so  chiv- 
alrously, almost  like  a  stranger"  ("My  own 
phrase,"  cried  John  to  himself;  "it's  true,  it's 
true!"),  "I  think  she  must  have  felt  as  though  a 
hand  of  ice  was  clutching  her  heart — and  freezing 
it." 

"What  must  I  seem  to  her?"  cried  John, 
"Fifteen  years  of  darkness  and  impotence  don't 
add  to  a  man's  youth — when  he  is  without  hope." 

Olive  smiled.  "You  have  the  gift  of  laughter, 
which  is  denied  to  most  women,"  she  said.  "I 
mean,  the  ability  to  laugh  at  yourself.  Laughter 
destroys  bitterness,  doesn't  it?" 

John's  eyes  narrowed;  he  remembered  some 
terrible  hours.  "There  were  nights  when  I  fought 
with  the  beasts  of  doubt  and  despair;  nights  when 
I  could  see  no  hope,  no  justice,  nothing  but  pitiless 


3o8  THREADS 

irony;  nights  when  I  battered  my  head  against 
the  walls  and  cursed  the  God  of  the  Christians." 

Olive  looked  up  wonderingly.  "And  in  the 
morning  you  laughed?"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,"  said  her  father,  "I  laughed,"  For,  as 
he  had  watched  the  first  faint  glimmer  of  daylight 
creep  through  the  bars  of  his  prison,  he  had  seen  a 
vision  of  cities  peopled  with  little  men — strutting, 
serious,  important,  self-complacent,  and  of  women 
smiling  at  their  vanity;  he  had  seen  the  lavish 
panorama  of  beauty  that  nature  had  provided  for 
their  enjoyment.  The  vision  became  a  cinemato- 
graph, the  pictures  constantly  changing.  The  pos- 
sibilities of  the  average  man  were  almost  limitless, 
but  his  actions  proved  him  a  little  man  in  a  big 
world.  Some  men  wore  ermine  robes  and  coro- 
nets, and  wigs  and  top-hats,  and  surrounded  them- 
selves with  the  treasures  of  the  earth  in  order 
to  prove  their  greatness;  others  spoke  at  great 
length  in  dignified  chambers  and  in  public  places, 
but  out  of  their  mouths  came  pebbles  that  they 
thought  were  pearls;  some  wore  swords  and  spurs 
and  tried  to  look  terrifying;  others  chains  of  office 
in  which  they  tried  to  look  impressive;  some 
smoked  big  cigars  and  allowed  shriekingly  vulgar 
gold  chains  to  stretch  across  their  swelling  stom- 
achs as  they  lolled  back  in  thousand-guinea  cars; 
others,  spectacled  and  thin-lipped,  added  up  rows 
of  figures  and  entered  the  results  in  great  books, 


THREADS  309 

and  smiled  joyously  to  see  their  industry  re- 
warded; some  shook  their  fists  at  the  palaces  of 
the  rich;  others  held  their  handkerchiefs  to  their 
noses  when  passing  the  hovels  of  the  poor;  some 
sat  on  their  land,  and  in  consideration  of  huge  pay- 
ments, allowed  some  privileged  persons  to  sit  on 
small  sections  of  it  for  seven  or  fourteen  or 
twenty-one  years,  after  which  all  improvements 
belonged  to  the  landlord;  others  walked  round 
and  round  their  picture  galleries,  gazing  at  their 
ancestors  and  dreading  contact  with  the  com- 
mon herd;  some  spent  the  nights  in  tasting  the 
forbidden  delights  of  the  underworld,  others  in 
prowling  the  streets  for  plunder;  some  built  high 
walls  and  sat  behind  them,  others  built  towers 
of  folly  and  danced  on  the  summits;  some  climbed 
snow-covered  mountains,  crossing  terrible  crev- 
asses and  glaciers  moving  with  the  rapidity  of  a 
four-wheeled  cab,  for  the  sake  of  the  kudos  to  be 
obtained;  others  hacked  and  delved  through  for- 
ests and  jungles,  along  fevered  rivers  and  misamic 
swamps,  in  order  to  kill  some  unfortunate  beast 
for  the  sake  of  killing  it;  some,  in  red  coats  and 
ridiculous  black  caps,  rode  on  horseback,  chasing 
a  bored  and  perplexed  fox,  and  made  a  hideous 
noise  in  the  process;  others,  attired  in  wonderful 
coats  with  large  pockets,  attended  by  keepers, 
surrounded  by  vacuous  villagers  who  made  loud 
noises  to  disturb  some  startled  birds,  dealt  death 


310  THREADS 

and  mutilation  among  the  feathered  kingdom, 
and  entered  the  result  proudly  in  a  book  kept  for 
the  purpose ;  some  wrote  down  on  paper  the  truth 
as  they  saw  it,  others  wrote  what  they  hoped  their 
admirers  would  buy ;  some  wrote  of  the  men  they 
had  met  and  the  things  they  had  seen,  others  of 
the  intimacies  they  had  enjoyed  with  various 
women,  not  knowing  that  they  were  writing  them- 
selves down  accursed;  some,  unable  themselves  to 
create,  criticized  the  creations  of  their  fellows, 
others  made  music  for  the  world's  delight — and 
it  remained  hidden  in  a  drawer;  some  took  pride 
in  building  horrible,  staring,  ugly  villas;  others 
dreamed  dreams  of  f  airylike  buildings  which  were 
not  considered  practical  owing  to  the  cost  of  con- 
struction; some  thought,  others  accepted;  some 
laughed,  others  wept;  and,  the  film  exhausted, 
another  day  notched  to  the  aggregate  score,  and 
the  turn  of  the  eternal  treadmill  to  be  faced,  John 
had  laughed  to  himself  and  risen  from  his  plank 
bed.  "I  cried  for  the  food  of  the  gods  to  nourish 
my  understanding,  and  they  brought  me  skilly!" 
he  exclaimed.  "It  seemed  so  typical  of  life,  I 
couldn't  help  laughing!" 

"You  must  n't  laugh  at  mother,  dear,"  said 
Olive  gently.  "Women  can't  bear  being  laughed 
at."  She  kissed  his  forehead.  "Good  night, 
father!  I'm  glad  we  have  had  this  talk."  She 
looked  at  him  reflectively.  "I  suppose  being  en- 


THREADS  311 

gaged  has  cured  me  of  shyness,"  She  turned  as 
she  reached  the  door.  "Please  remember  that 
mother  has  loved  you — always,"  she  added. 
"Goodnight!" 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door. 
John  sat  quite  still  for  some  minutes;  then  he 
switched  off  the  lights,  and  pulled  back  the  heavy 
curtains,  flooding  the  room  with  moonlight.  He 
went  back  to  the  couch,  and  sat  in  front  of  the 
empty  fireplace,  staring  into  vacancy.  For  a  long 
time  he  sat  there,  lost  in  thought.  Then  the  door 
opened,  and  Amelia  came  in.  He  rose,  hearing  a 
movement.  She  stood  quite  still,  looking  at  him 
uncertainly.  He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Amelia !"  he  cried  unsteadily.  "You  look  like 
a  ghost — the  girl  of  fifteen  years  ago — my  wife  I" 

"I  came  for  a  book,"  she  explained;  "I  knew  I 
shouldn't  sleep." 

He  wheeled  a  chair  round  for  her,  "It 's  so 
late,"  she  protested. 

John  smiled.  "Do  you  remember?"  he  asked, 
a  little  unsteadily,  "do  you  remember  some  of 
those  nights  when  we  were  too  full  of  plans  for 
the  future  to  be  able  to  sleep,  and  we  used  to  lie 
awake — talking  and  talking  and  talking?  And 
then,  suddenly,  I  would  ask  you  something,  and 
you  did  n't  answer,  and  I  would  find  you  had 
fallen  asleep — on  my  shoulder — breathing  quietly 
as  a  child.  And  I,  hardly  daring  to  move,  would 


312  THREADS 

lie  there — thanking  God  in  my  heart  for  the 
miracle  of  your  love." 

Amelia  trembled.  "A  woman  does  n't  forget — 
her  glimpses  of  heaven,"  she  whispered. 

"Nor  does  a  man — when  he  has  been  down  into 
hell,"  cried  John.  "They  robbed  me  of  my  free- 
dom, and  I  accepted  that;  it  was  unjust,  but  so  is 
life  in  human  hands.  But  they  robbed  me  of  you 
— and  that  I  could  n't  accept.  I  loved  you  with 
every  fiber  of  my  being — with  my  soul;  and  they 
could  n't  kill  my  longing  for  you,  my  need  of 
you.  I  came  back  wondering — almost  dreading — 
whether  I  should  still  be  to  you  what  I  was,  or 
whether  I  should  be  just  a  memory." 

Amelia  looked  up.  "You  were  so  quiet,  so  self- 
contained;  I  felt  you  realized  that  I  was  growing 
old,  and  I  fought — fought  hard  and  bitterly 
against  the  idea  of  our  coming  together  again — 
just  as  friends,  content  only  with  memories.  You 
treated  me  almost  as  a  stranger,  and  I  was  afraid 
to  show  you  what  was  in  my  heart,  lest  it  should 
embarrass  you-" 

"My  dear!  My  dear!"  cried  John,  taking  her 
hands. 

"I  wanted  to  go  to  you,  and  to  put  my  arms 
round  you,  and  to  comfort  you,"  said  Amelia,  a 
thrill  in  her  voice  that  made  him  choke.  "I 
wanted  to  make  up  to  you  for  all  the  years  you 
fiad  been  robbed  of.  But  you  were  so  cool,  so 


THREADS  313 

full  of  courteous  deference.  It  stabbed  me,  it 
hurt  me.  And  I  didn't  dare!" 

She  was  quivering  all  over;  he  could  feel  her 
pulse  racing.  "We  didn't  know,  we  couldn't 
believe,"  he  murmured,  biting  his  lip  hard  to 
control  his  feelings.  He  was  seeing  into  the 
hidden  places  of  her  soul,  and  what  he  saw  almost 
frightened  him.  He  felt  strangely  humble,  curi- 
ously triumphant. 

"I  often  longed  to  break  my  promise  not  to 
come  and  see  you,"  she  told  him;  "but,  for  our 
children's  sake,  I  kept  it." 

"I  thought  you  felt  in  your  heart  that  It  would 
be  happier  for  us  both  if  the  man  you  had  parted 
from  fifteen  years  before  were  dead,  and  only 
his  shadow  remained;  that  it  would  be  wiser  for 
us  to  go  down  the  long  hill  together,  with  hands 
clasped  in  understanding,  in  friendship,  guarding 
the  sanctuary  of  the  love  we  once  worshiped," 
said  John  quietly. 

Amelia  looked  up  with  the  frankness  of  a 
child,  but  in  her  eyes  was  all  the  mystery  of  a 
woman's  devotion.  "My  love  never  died;  it  only 
slept,"  she  whispered;  "it  is  there — for  you — 
now — just  as  it  always  has  been — if  you  really 
want  it!" 

"I  want  nothing  else — in  my  life,"  he  cried,  and 
he  took  her  in  his  arms;  their  lips  met  in  a  long 
kiss. 


314  THREADS 

She  clung  to  him  as  she  had  done  that  terrible 
day  fifteen  years  ago,  as  though  she  could  never 
let  him  go  again.  Youth  is  eternal  while  love 
remains. 

After  a  little  while  she  looked  up,  listening. 
"How  still  it  is!"  she  whispered.  Then,  with  a 
tiny  low  gurgle  of  laughter:  "Do  you  remem- 
ber," she  asked,  "how  we  used  to  creep  round  and 
listen  outside  the  children's  rooms — before  going 
to  bed — to  hear  if  they  were  asleep?" 

John  chuckled.  "And  nurse  said  we  were  spoil- 
ing them!" 

"Sometimes  they  needed  tucking  up,"  she  pro- 
tested. "What  are  you  thinking  of  ?"  she  inquired 
suddenly. 

"The  first  time  I  heard  the  patter  of  little  bare 
feet  on  the  stairs,"  he  said. 

"What  did  you  do?"  she  whispered. 

"I  held  you  in  my  arms — very  tight — lest  you 
should  see — how  it  thrilled  me." 

Amelia  sighed  deeply.  "They  have  grown  up 
and  we  have  grown— old." 

"You  can't  grow  old — when  you  love,"  he  re- 
plied, holding  her  in  his  arms. 

She  moved  over  to  the  door,  and  he  followed. 
A  light  was  burning  in  the  hall.  She  mounted  the 
stairs,  and  turned  to  look  at  her  husband.  He 
smiled. 


THREADS  315 

"Let's  pretend  they  are  still  tiny,"  she  whis- 
pered, "and  that  we  are  still — young." 

He  switched  off  the  light  in  the  hall,  and  joined 
iher.  Their  hands  met  as  they  went  slowly  up- 
stairs. In  the  woods  beyond  the  drive,  a  nightin- 
gale was  still  singing* 


